


Of Love And Other Poisons

by laudanum86



Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum86/pseuds/laudanum86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An inquisitive Shadow Thief with penchant for troubles. A rueful Bhaalspawn, the renowned heroine hiding her dark vices. Magical goods of dubious quality that prove to work - in the least way expected. Lies and crashed loyalties. It can't end well, can it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So... This is the story I posted originally on FF net, quite a while ago. A more or less loose Baldur's Gate 2 adaptation with a (somewhat unusual, I suppose) romance and AU elements planned in the future. For various reasons, I kinda, well, abonadoned it. Ahem. 
> 
> Anyways, here comes a little revised (and hopefully better) version that I do plan to finish this time ;) 
> 
> Please note that English is not my first language, and the content wasn't beta-ed... I'm doing my best, though. I really am.
> 
> Read and review if you feel kind... And of course, most of all I hope you'll enjoy this story!

 

* * *

 

 

"I swear by all the gods there are, one more time I catch you ogling my tits, and you'll regret your mother didn't dump you into the river when there still was a chance."

Rather hastily, Gaelan Bayle put away his spyglass.

Just as expected, he found himself looking straight into the girl's dark-framed, blue eyes under fiercely furrowed brows. From rather an uncomfortable close-up. The stare she was treating him to could have curdled milk.

Gaelan gave her his trademark grin, broad and shameless.

"Hawkeye dear, ain't no reason to get all pissy, or is there?"- he drawled, his smirk turning even more brazen just as Hawkeye's teeth ground loudly - "Takin' as I already seen yer tits, an' a lot more times than I actually care to... Ouch!"

The rogue hissed and recoiled from the blow - earning a couple of muttered curses as he did - then touched his side. Hawkeye's piercing gaze didn't waver; casually, she rubbed her elbow.

"That was unneccessary."

"Stove it, jerk. Or next time, it will be blade I stick in you."

Gaelan huffed, biting back another crude remark. Instead, he rolled up his jacket's sleeves and raised a spy-glass back to his eyes, ostentatiously looking in a direction that was quite opposite from the one-time street wench, currently a scout for the guild, and his working partner.

Hawkeye was a fine lass, in a way. Especially if one could overlook her haughty attitude - he generously chosen noblewoman's upbringing to blame - or the open disdain she has been showing towards the male kind - to which Gaelan sadly and self-admittedly contributed - or the emotional detachment he found downright disturbing. He couldn't honestly say if he'd ever seen the girl laugh - as in, really laugh. Or cry, for that matter.

All in all, he'd come to know Hawkeye well enough to understand that when cranky, she was best left alone. Which meant now.

But then, he thought as he glanced around, who wasn't cranky?

The strange guild war stuff of late left everyone on the edge and wary, compromising integrity of what even in the high days wasn't an exactly trusting bunch. First came a wave of unexplained disappearances, then the whole groups of long-time members seemed to be switching sides, and no one have ever did as much as seen the enemy. Gaelan heard the rumours about the new guild's agents coming out of the mist in the darkest hours of night, and dissolving in a thin air when approached - which, in turn, brought low the morale of those still loyal, and any chances of a possible sabotage down to nil. It was like the Shadow Thieves were presented with a set of new rules they had no idea of, and got caught in the game they thought their own. Then, they have found a body, dumped carelessly into sewers. One grim discovery lead to another. Soon, they have came across the entrance to a subterrean complex, disguised in an ordinary manhole. Here, in the very heart of their city - and there wasn't many things going on in Athkatla without the guild knowing, if not actually participating. All the while, just a few feet below the ground, an unnatural malice lurked. Several attempts to infiltrate the hidden dungeon failed miserably, as no one sent in have ever returned. At least, no one alive. According to some gossip he'd heard whispered in the corners of the guildhall, they have learned the culprit's name - Irenicus - through some foul ritual involving necromancers. Gaelan didn't like to dwell on particulars longer than he deemed neccessary - one way or another, the jig was called, and here they were.

He groaned inaudibly.

If there was something worse than sitting on the arse and pretending all was nice and dandy when it most certainly wasn't, this was it. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. It was killing him.

"Oy! Keep yer bloomin' boot away from my nose, will ya?"

Gaelan winced, unsuccessfully trying to straighten his numb leg. Tingling in his ankle has grown infuriating. He felt as if he shoved it right into a mound full of ants.

"Sorry, sorry."

The halfling girl, invisible on the other side of the room, huffed and jostled.

"Don't be sorry, 'll rest me fine if ya keep it t' yerself."

"Ye're smaller than I, Shiona. Can't ye move? Just a a wee bit?"

"Lemme see... Uhm, no way? And don't be pickin' on me just 'cause ye're overgrown an' all." - Shiona sniffled indignantly - "Size ain't matters."

"Bah, but it does."- said Orm, somewhere to the back - "Tis' wha' wimmin tells me."

Both Shiona and Hawkeye snorted derisively. Then, Hawkeye muttered something nasty about big cocks, tiny brains, and men in general. Gaelan had just enough sense not to comment. Orm, dumb as he was, did not.

"Ye sure knows somethin' in th' matter, isnnae? What wit' ye bein' whore an' all."

"The only thing I can assure you of is that no woman in her right mind, a whore or not, would ever touch you with as much as an end of a broomstick. Unless when intending to shove it right up this one place where the sun never shines. Oh, and I almost forgot: go fuck yourself, Orm."

Shiona giggled.

Orm lapsed into a tongue-tied silence.

Hawkeye smirked, obviously intending to continue.

Gaelan felt corners of his mouth twitch, then realised how very much Orm's boorish remark resembled his own, and scowled instead.

"Quit bickering."- said Arcanis Gath, unnervingly close to his ear- "Focus. Now."

The rogue nodded. It was maybe a second time since the morning that the senior assassin bothered to speak, but it was enough. Hawkeye shut up without as much as a sideways glance. She just shifted to her knees, chewing on the end of her braid.

Someone swore. Flies buzzed sleepily.

Sighs and grunts coming at regular intervals from every corner of the room ranged from bored to irritated to impatient - to dangerously bored, irritated, and impatient. It was a wee bit risky business, to force the two assassins - who liked solitary jobs and disliked each other - an enforcer thug about as bright and subtle as a bucket of coal, a chirpy cutpurse whose only fault was that she volunteered, and three sharp-shooter scouts, one of them being apparently too close her moonblood for comfort - into company for any prolonged time.

To have them huddled together in a musty, dingy store-room with narrow slits for windows - a reminescent of the tower's past purpose - all in unusually hot spring day and under given circumstances, was ever so worse.

After just a few hours, the tension was almost tangible. If not for Gath's silent, commanding presence, there would have been flying fists and blackened eyes and teeth knocked out, sure as gold. Gaelan rubbed his forehead, looking at the street below with an unspoken yearning.

The Waukeen's Promenade was busy like always, with a constant stream of travellers pouring in through the city gates, guards shouting, people milling on the main square and in the narrow alleyways and among shopping stalls piled high with wares brought from every corner of Faerun. He could hear a city-crier, his voice already hoarse despite the early hour; calls of the street peddlers, selling anything from cheap jewellery to hot butter shortbreads to fake charms and love-potions; the fruit vendors praising their oranges and grapes. Once or twice, he thought he caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure as it melted into a tenement's shadow, then another one dropping off the roof, just to disappear behind a potter's stall. Seagulls hovered high above, shrieking, almost invisible against the sky's faded-blue backdrop.

The rogue sighed, the sound being all in one bored, irritated and impatient. He longed for the streets and being part of the crowd.

"Something's up. See? Over there."

Hawkeye leaned closer to him, a stray wisp of her dark hair tickling his neck. She smelled of liquorice and sweat. Mostly sweat. Gaelan felt his own tunic, drenched and sticky under armoured leather, then eagerly looked in the pointed direction. A brief rush of excitement died down at once.

"Nay, they be no our lads."- he shook his head - "But there's somethin' ratty goin' on in that new circus place. Whole bunch o' soldiermen under their tent."

"I have never been to a circus."- Hawkeye confessed suddenly, her eyes squinted and a few shades lighter in the glaring sun - "My mother, she used to say it was good for keeping serfs happy, but nothing else."

"Give 'em bread an' plays, bet that's what yer Ma said, aye? Heard that sayin', too." - Gaelan shifted awkwardly. As a rule, Hawkeye have not talked about any of her more distant past - "I've never been to th' circus, either."

The girl said nothing. He smiled as he continued.

"But once, when I was a kid, I managed t' get me arse soundly kicked for tryin'. Swear, couldn't sit up for three days! I wanted t' see a direwolf. The beastmaster caught me sneakin' 'round the cages after closing time, an' then, well."

Hawkeye raised one eyebrow.

"Ah yes, I wager he must have mistaken you for a runaway monkey."

The rogue's grin turned wry. He shrugged.

"Know what, Hawky, sometimes I think I could really like ye. Were ye not such a mean, mean bitch."

"Same goes to you, but at least I'm pretty. It is hard to be both nice and pretty, you know."

"Coo! I be thinkin' meself quite a looker, too, so we're on th' even."

"We are most certainly not. Sadly, whoever told you so, was either blind or a liar. Ever so sorry, friend."

"Me, too." - Shiona chimed in - "An' if I hear ya sayin' the 'c' word again, I's gonna kick ya in that lil' funny sack thingie 'tween yer legs that ya might consider precious. Wrongly so."

"Bah, ye wouldn't do that."

"Just a friendly warnin', Bayle, is all."

With yet another shrug, Gaelan turned away.

Crowd on the Promenade thickened considerably. There were some definite troubles in the circus tent, taking as by now it was surrounded by the rows of armed soldiers. Near the northern gate, an argument between the newly arrived calishyte caravan's overseer and a city guard ensued. Judging from the both men's wild gesticulation, neither was going to step back. Under a marquee and accompanied by a flock of harem girls, the fat master of said caravan enjoyed his waterpipe, clearly unabashed by all the fuss. The rogue's attention shifted briefly from the fully loaded wagons of merchandise to the man's concubines - dusky-skinned, graceful, and dressed in rich silk robes in a riot of colours.

The rogue sighed wistfully.

 _Smug lucky bastard, this one_.

The air was hot, undisturbed by as much as a slightest breeze. Inside of the warehouse didn't provide neither shade nor relief from the unbearable heat, and after several hours reeked as bad as the thieves huddled on the floor did - of sweat, piss and stale breaths, and spilled watered wine. Gaelan pawed around in a search of his flask, but it wasn't there anymore. Someone snatched it, of course. Mouth dry as a parchment, he could feel the saltiness of blood where his lip cracked. Someone coughed close by.

"Cheer up, Shiona." - the rogue dug in his pocket and handed her a ruffled bag of fruit drops - "Here."

"Uh-huh, sure. Whatever. Thanks."

The halfling girl, squatting on her heels to the left, looked like a red-faced, weary-eyed shadow of her usual merry self. Even her curls hung limp and flat like laundry. She took the offered sweets unsmiling, her gaze focused on something far away. His spy-glass' lenses turned cloudy with condensation. He wiped them with a sleeve and tried to suck at the remaining fruit drops.

They tasted off, cloying, and brought no relief.

Suddenly, the skin on his bare arms crawled and raised into goosebumps even though the temperature didn't drop by a single degree. Gaelan shifted to a crouch the same instant, grabbing his crossbow just as a strange surge of power rippled through the afternoon stillness, the thing so long brewing made real. The very ground was beggining to shake.

"Whoah." - Hawkeye said, eerily echoing his thoughts - "The jig's up."

He nodded. Already he sensed it was going to be bad.

The vibrations gathered momentum, and for one awfully long moment, the rogue wondered if the tower containing the warehouse they occupied will last through the quake. Several feet below, people scattered in all directions, screaming and running like a panicked sheep.

The air warped, shimmering with a ghost of colours. Gaelan breathed in sharply metallic, ozone scent which was the smell of forbidden magic. He could see the cloaked figures of the Guild's assassins now as they moved, half-hidden behind the pillars and among the marketstalls, closing in. Carefully, ever so slowly.

"Steady. Stay calm and wait for a sign." - Arcanis Gath murmured - "Steady..."

For once quiet, focused, their fingers on the triggers, the marksmen waited.

A wrought iron lid covering the entrance to the dungeon lifted with what Gaelan could only imagine as jarring, rusty sound. He shuddered involuntarily. A hand appeared, scratching at the pavement. His grip on the crossbow tightened, his breath shaky and palms sticky and slick with sweat.

"Steady..."

The lid toppled over and fell to the side. Something - or rather someone, a large man in armour, was laborously crawling out of the manhole. Then another one, a woman. And there were others coming behind her, the three of them.

Neither was the mage they were hunting for, nor one of their own. Just some strangers. What in the Nine Hells were they all doing down there, Gaelan had no idea. Not that it mattered now, though. He was under strict orders - and whoever they were, they had the simple misfortune of being in a wrong place, and in a very wrong time indeed. He shook his head.

 _Life's a real bitch sometimes_. _Sorry, pals._

A hooded figure stepped from behind the pillar, flashing a brilliant red scarf. The sign.

"Shoot!"

The line of sight was clear so far. Frowning a little, the rogue aimed at the armoured man, exhaled, then deftly released the trigger.

"No, stop! Lads, cease fire! Cease fire! He's over there!"

It was just a split second too late.

All that Gaelan could do was to helplessly stare. A portal opened several yards away from the dungeon's gaping entrance, away from huddling strangers and the crouched assassins. Cockooned by unholy light, a man's powerful outline was gathering substance as it loomed up from the dimension door.

The air crackled with static.

His bolt whooshed, cutting the distance in no time, then - suddenly, impossibly - slowed down, swerved, and crashed against a rock boulder. An ear-splitting explosion tore through the air, its raw force knocking everybody on the floor. Down on his knees, wide-eyed and gaping, Gaelan Bayle watched the western side of the Waukeen's Promenade disappear in a roaring fountain of stones, sand and dust.

It was only much later he admitted what his first stunned thought was.

_Ahh, by Mask. Blimey. I'm just so fuckin' done. I've blasted the bleedin' Promenade._

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware... There is some gore ahead.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaelan felt a blade press and slide against his neck.

Wickedly sharp, it stung where it nicked the skin. He winced, clearing his throat.

"An' by the way, boss, I'm real sorry 'bout the Promenade. I never meant to-"

The rogue broke off mid-sentence.

As he looked around the dimly lit room, his expression changed, growing sheepish with every passing silent second.

"I mean, Gath told us to shoot, so it be his fault, innit? I done only as 'twas ordered, an' then it all just sort of 'appened, an', well..."

A door creaked somewhere in the corridor. He could hear no footsteps, though, not over the music and a distant hum of voices coming from the inn's main hall.

The bath-house was quiet and still empty at this time of day, which was just what the rogue hoped for, even though normally he enjoyed a good laugh, wine, conversations and bawdy songs that came along with the company that frequented the place in the late evenings. The blade slipped from his fingers and fell, clattering unpleasantly.

Gaelan shifted, leaning to retrieve it, water splashing out of the tub and onto white-washed, wooden floor. A half an hour of pitiful attempts, and all the various excuses for the Promenade incident he managed to come up with still sounded right as they did at the very beginning - which meant, incredibly lame.

Also, the sorry pretense of a mirror that used to hang on the wall beside was gone; someone must have swiped it. Not that it was the first time.

"Bleedin' bunch o' cloyers, them louts." - the rogue muttured, picking up a fresh bit of a soap and lathering his face - "Some people, they would steal just 'bout anythin'..."

He huffed and almost smiled at the irony, then eyed a worn towel, thrown carelessly over the tub's edge, and a razor in his hand.

It was going to be quite a challenge, now. Sure, even as shabby place as the Copper Coronet did employ a barber and flock of attendants in their bath-house. The problem was, Gaelan never could bring himself to trust someone so much as to let them hold a blade to his throat. With a resignated shrug, he took another swig from a bottle he thoughtfully acquired on his way to the inn. He grimaced at the potion's taste, then at the alien sensation - tingling, pulling that was spreading deep under his skin, wedged somewhere between his bones as the damaged tissue begun to repair and knit itself together again - at a tempo accelerated by tenfold. He could draw breath easier now, the pain in his ribs subsiding ever so slightly, though it would still take hours for the full recovery.

Gaelan laid back and ducked underwater. It was still nice and warm, if not exactly clean anymore.

He stayed there, submerged, thinking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hawky?"

"What?"

"Pray tell, how much I'd 'ave to pay ye for stranglin' Vynn?"

"Nothing at all, friend. I'm capable of acts of charity sometimes, too." - she shrugged - "Actually, I think it would make for the most pleasurable experience I had in weeks. I hate that arrogant fool."

Gaelan nodded. As far as he knew, it was far much easier to name people whom Hawkeye didn't hate.

They were in the open now, but the atmosphere of a forced companionship seemed to linger on, trailing behind them much like the stench after a goats-herding hireling.

They had left their post right after it banged.

The shopkeeper's eyes - wide and frightened already as he sat under the counter, most of his merchandise sprawled on the floor - nearly popped from their sockets when, all of a sudden, the premise filled with the armed Shadow Thieves, dropping in through the ceiling's trapdoor. Any other day, the rogue would crack up at the poor man's expression when Gath - who appeared to forgot that he was still holding a loaded crossbow in his hands - bowed, and in a hushed, soothing tone, apologized for the troubles.

At first they had to push their way through the panicked crowd, and nearly lost Shiona when she tripped and dissapeared beneath the human undertow. Before they reached the particular stairway that led to a gallery nearest the mark, Gaelan was breathless and bruised, Orm had bloody face, Shiona's ankle was sprained and Hawkeye was cursing over a boot's sole that came out loose. All the while, Vynn was shouting for them to hurry, while Gath shouted to be careful, and the only person who neither yelled nor complained was Jasmir, their third scout - which in turn wasn't much of an indicative, as she was mute. The ruined gallery was empty for a change, with stalls abonadoned and shop doors ajar, and they had run as if chased by pack of hell hounds - gravel and bits of shattered glass crunching under boots, their rushed steps not even verging on stealthy as they echoed through the oddly deserted arcade.

Here, as soon as they took positions, the quarrel broke anew.

Vynn, the second-in-command of their group, stood with his arms crossed, his dark eyes narrowed to angry slits. Usually calm and composed Arcanis Gath paced restlessly along the banister.

"Shiona needs to see a healer. Orm and Jasmir, too. Others are armed too light and exhausted. No one has expected-"

"We should wait."

"I already decided, and I'm sending them back. At least those who are the worst hurt." - Gath said sternly - "Jasmir, you'll be in charge. Go find Ciaran, he'll be waiting at the back of the Ilmater's shrine. The tiny one on the eastern wall. Stay there and rest until called off. Will you manage?"

The mute scout nodded.

There was blood smeared down her temple, a gash on her jaw, and a wide, shallow cut just over her eyebrow. Her blonde hair, pulled back, hid nothing from the view. The rogue shook his head. Just as if the poor girl needed any more scars.

"Go, Jasmir."

The trio took off, as hurriedly as they could muster, with Shiona hobbling in the middle, her arm looped awkwardly through Orm's elbow. She squealed and cursed aloud when, without a word of warning, the man picked her up from the ground and slung over his shoulder.

"Ey! I's no sack o' turnip, mind ya!"

"Shut up, wee one."

The younger assassin watched them go with a crossed, exasperated look on his face.

"Gath. Tell me, what kind of a buggering joke is this? We needed them!" - he spat - "They weren't bleeding to death as we spoke, yes? The circumstances have changed. As far as I know, the damned Promenade being blown into bits wasn't included in the plans, either!"

Gaelan flinched, then shifted on his feet, eyeing the site of the explosion.

Though he really hated to admit it, Vynn had a point. They were not done yet.

As for the Promenade, it looked as bad as one could imagine. The western gate was gone, reduced to a smouldering pile of rabble, not even as much as two bricks left to hold together, and there was a huge chunk of the wall missing, and another one looking about to collapse. Water gushed from a ruined fountain; the statue that once decorated it stood headless, wingless, with its marble arms untouched by the explosion and still raised in what now looked like an accusation. Remnants of a several wagons burned steadily where the Calishyte caravan was.

Briefly, the rogue wondered what had become of the man and his pretty concubines. Sure enough, it's been mere minutes after the blast, but people already gathered around, both common folk and nobles milling and gawking, crying for a water-cart to be brought, a cordon of city guards trying to hold the crowd in reins. It was not needed, as far as he could tell. There was something else that kept them well away.

He frowned.

There was an empty space, a ring of earth littered with shards of marble, a nobody's land that not a single person dared to stomp so far. And then, right in the middle of it, there was a wall of thick bluish-black vapour, neither smoke nor mist, reeking of ozone and rusted metal. It hung immobile, undisturbed by a breeze, covering the place where the dungeon entrance was. A sickly light flickered through it now and then. The silence was eerie.

No sound ever came from behind the magic curtain. No one stepped out of it.

No, it wasn't over.

"Smells o' rat, eh?"

Hawkeye's forehead creased with worry. She wasn't looking at him.

"Indeed. An ugly, nasty rotting rat at that."

Gath came to squat on his heels beside them, sighing. He looked quite distressed, but then, though occasionally charged with the leadership over some bigger actions, it was widely known that the senior assassin considered the company of two a crowd. Managing a group of the half of a dozen bickering thieves must have been trying on him.

"It takes a while for the spells like this one to dissolve." - he murmured, running a hand through his pale hair - "He might be lying dead there, just as well."

"Or, just as well, he might not." - Hawkeye said, scowling as per usual.

"So... Are we goin' t' try go down there?"

"It's going to be difficult now." - Arcanis said - "Not without drawing the attention. We push our way through the crowd, and we'll end up on plate for militia to pick. Else, we would have to make a run around the other gallery."

Vynn, with his back turned ostentatiously, snorted. Loud enough for all to hear.

Hawkeye frowned.

"It will take us at least a half an hour to go around. Too much time."

There was a wind blowing steadily now, and people shouted, passing along buckets of water, clouds of steam rising into the air where it was thrown over the burning debris.

Gaelan cleared his throat.

"Uhm..." Arcanis stirred, looking at him wearily. "Yes, lad?"

"It can be not th' best idea, now, but I be thinkin'-"

"For the love of the gods." - Hawkeye said - "I loathe it when you say that."

"Quit it, Hawkeye." - Gath waved his hand impatiently - "What is it?"

The rogue bit on his lip, and then, despite everything, grinned.

 

* * *

 

 

It _was_ a very bad idea, of course.

He should have known better himself.

"Bayle, you are pushing it." - Hawkeye hissed - "I'm warning you."

"Heh, so admit it. Ye care 'bout me, after all?"

"I do, you bastard! I dread to think whom I might get as a replacement partner, have your ugly mug happened to splatter on the pavement!"

Even suspended precariously from the line of bunting as he was, the rogue had no other choice but smile. Weakly, but still.

It was probably the closest thing to a compliment Hawkeye was able to give.

"Focus, you two!" - Gath called from the balcony across the street - "You can pat each other's back, or kiss or whatever after we're done."

Gaelan twisted and caught a glimpse of the girl's middle finger, flicking in an exceptionally rude dwarven gesture.

Vynn, already down on the site, was nowhere to be seen. Worrying as it was, the rogue had other, far more important things to be concerned with.

First of all, just as the girl said, he was _definitely_ pushing it.

All too aware of the drop below, Gaelan was only little over halfway between the two arcades, and his strenght was already wearing off.

It has been a good long time since he last crawled the rope. Too long, sure enough, which he stubbornly refused to admit - right before it was too late. Now, his strained arms hurt, muscles burned and tingled and shook, and his grip was loosening with every passing second. He could hear Hawkeye as she called him again, her voice anxious. The rope bounced.

"I'm grand, aye? Not a bother on me!"

Breath hissing through his gritted teeth, he kicked the air and forced himself forward. This left him with several more arm's lenghts to go, plus a numbed wrist and still nothing but his own cockiness to blame. Not that it was the first time Gaelan have put himself in a situation like this; actually, it was something kind of chronic. But then, the Lady Luck favored those who took risks and seemed to smile kindly at him so far. Who dares, wins. It was always nine times out of ten, as the saying had it.

He could hear his pulse as it thudded loudly in his ears, blood humming with adrenaline as he laborously struggled to hold on. His breath was coming out in short, ragged gasps.

Six lenghts to go. Four. Two.

Arcanis was leaning over the banister only an arm's lenght away, ready to help.

"Come on, you're doing well. Steady, lad. You're almost there."

The rogue cursed. He was clinging on his fingertips now, and felt them slipping, one by one.

Index.

Median.

With a hiss, he flung himself forward.

"Gotcha."

The assassin's outstretched hand brushed past his sleeve.

He had just enough time to see Gath's eyes widen and hear Hawkeye cry out, her voice ringing with raw panic, and then, it was only a handful of air he was clutching.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaelan despised just about anything that had to do with fish.

When presented with a choice in the matter, he went out of his way to avoid the lower docks that bustled with vendors offering their cold, slippery catch with its pale slit bellies and glazed eyes. Even the smell of a highly praised chowder his sister liked to cook made him sick, and when wafting from her kitchen, it was a perfect indicative Lizzie didn't want him at dinner. Gaelan came to vague conclusion that as of lately, she seemed to serve only a seafood pie, a clam stew, braised shrimp and fish under various guises, just to spite him.

Yet, quite ironically, it was a fishmonger's stall with its ordinary blue and white striped marquee that saved him.

The falling rogue bounced off the strung fabric, trashing the stall's timber frame into splinters and landing - much more mercifuly than he would ever dared to hope - among the piles of fish gut and kelp and baskets crawling with the ocean's bounty, eye to eye with the ugliest, toothy creature he'd ever seen.

Feeling somewhat light-headed, he regarded the curiously gleaming things that lied scattered nearby, one of them wedged precisely between his arm and flank.

He let out a chuckle, short and rather hysterical.

It seemed that by some miracle, be it a divine intervention or just old simple luck, he didn't end up skewered neither on a gutting knife, nor a paring knife, nor a cleaver.

Nine times out of ten was the Lady's Luck.

So true, so far. Still, the impact left him breathless and dazed, and at first, he just lied there, panting. His ribs - the whole side of his body actually - didn't feel right, and hurt hellishly as he scrambled to his feet, hissing in pain, shaking out seaweed and prawns that strayed under his tunic's collar.

He looked up, but there was no sign of Gath or Hawkeye whatsoever.

Crouched low, Gaelan ducked out from behind of the ruined stall - and backed away, just as fast.

The wall of magic mist hung just a few steps from where he fell, much closer than he had anticipated, and was dissolving steadily right before his eyes. Squinting as he peered through the fading vapour, he realised four things at once. The battle was over. In the gaping crater left by the explosion, the dead thieves lay.

Charred and broken, the bodies - over a dozen of them - looked grotesquely, surreal, the very ground beneath tinged with scarlet, the air heavy with the acrid stench of burned flesh, blood, and magic. The rogue saw his fair share of corpses before - blue from the cold and twig-thin from starving too long, beaten beyond the recognition and left to bleed out in the streets, fallen in the fight - dead bodies were just dead, all the same. It was something else that made his skin crawl.

Strangers, the very same who have climbed out of the dungeon, stood there, still very much alive - a large tattooed man holding a sword in his hand; an elven woman clad in a too short chainmail; a sooty-faced urchin with a mop of whitish hair - they both seemed struggling to keep the growling warrior in place. Huddling behind the stall's remains, Gaelan noticed another girl - pale and strawberry blonde - fluttering uncertainly at the edge of the group, and a slim fellow with an exotic cast to his features whom he thought vaguely familiar.

They looked a miserable bunch altogether, dirty and battered and haggard. Yet, they lived - and so did the wizard, the one that hunt was called for.

Irenicus.Clad in the eerie, sickly light that writhed and slithered around him, the bastard mage looked unscathed.

And he had Vynn.

Gaelan felt bile raising in the back of his throat.

Down on his knees, his face an awful mess of skin that bubbled and flaked, leaving only bared raw muscle, the assassin wheezed and pawed around, his gloved fingers twitching as they dug and scratched among the cobblestones. A web of reddish glow that seemed to cling to his cowering form flickered; his shoulders shuddered violently when he touched his stomach, and then, the rogue heard a strange sloshy sound, a reminder of an overripe fruit falling on the floor. Vynn choked, taking a shaky breath, his horrified stare fixed on the thing that plopped on the ground. Gaelan looked down and saw it, too. A tremor rolled down his spine.

He bend down and retched dryly.

The girl - the strawberry-blonde one - shrieked, shaking her head and covering her eyes, tears rolling down her dirty face.

"No! No, please, don't-"

The mage's voice was chillingly quiet as he spoke, devoid of emotion.

"But why, Imoen? It is never too late to learn. Don't you like what you see?" - fast as a snake, Irenicus inclined to the side, grabbing the cowering man by the scruff of his neck and lifting him off the ground.

The sound that tore out of Vynn's throat was a blood-curdling scream, cut short by fit of wet, rattling cough as he spasmed and jerked, the mage's hand holding him firmly in the air, his intensines spilling out in the likeness of gruesome ribbons, slick, grey and pink.

"It is alright, child. Do you remember anything I have shown you? This here, it is called caecum. That over there, colon. And this? This is shit." - Irenicus continued matter-of-factly - "That's what all people have inside. I am positive you will understand, eventually. The other one will, too."

The girl - one called Imoen - sobbed.

"Please stop, I don't want to look. Why do you do this, why?"

"And yet look, how he clings to life. Just like this friend of yours did."

Vynn writhed and wheezed, his fingers clawing feebly at his tormentor's hands and the ruin of his own face, boots kicking at a glistening pile under his feet - and still couldn't bring himself to die.

Even though Gaelan never quite liked him, it was a ghastly fate he wouldn't wish no one.

His fingers brushed along his belt, searching. He ought to end it. The mage's back was turned to him, and for whatever were his reasons - his attention focused solely on the people to the front. It was the only right thing to do now, to sneak there and put steel in the sick fuck's side, he thought. Kill the bastard, and then show Vynn some mercy - by ending his life as well.

Carefully, he reached to the sheath, and found nothing.

His dagger. He must have lost it as he fell.

The rogue looked around, then crept in between the stall's remains, stiffling groans as the sharp stabs of pain tore through his chest with every move he made. He picked one of the blades he'd seen earlier, but it lacked a handle, the useless piece of crap. Dismayed, he examined the only one he could find.

A paring knife, its blade just a little over three inches long. Good enough to serve as a toothpick. Hardly a weapon.

He screwed his eyes tight, pressing palm against his mouth until it hurt, trying to supress the urge to retch again. The overhelming stench of blood mixed with smell of fish, burned grease and vomit had little to do with it - out of the many things Gaelan ever thought he was - a gambler, a dodger, a daring thief - he was no hero. He was barely able to lift his arm, let alone fight.

There was no way he would move.

He had almost missed the moment when an arrow hissed, burying itself in the dying assassin's neck.

Vynn's whimpering ceased at once, his body twitched weakly and stilled as he slumped to the ground. Irenicus cocked his head, staring at the same person Gaelan and all others were.

The other girl - for it was a girl, he finally decided, an elf or a half-elf - the small, skinny one with white hair. She was crouching beside the large warrior, immobile, a short bow in her raised hands.

"Ah, such a mercy. A truly precious gift." - Irenicus' voice tinged with kind of a dry amusement - "Enjoyed killing this fool, didn't you, child?"

Still clutched around the bow's shaft, the girl's fingers trembled. She reached back to the quiver, nocking another arrow and aiming it at the wizard.

"No."

"Go ahead, you little fool. Do your worst."

The girl let her arrow loose. It whooshed as it cut through the air, hitting the mage's chest - and doing absolutely nothing as it disintegrated in a fountain of bright sparks.

Irenicus shrugged impatiently.

"An admirable aim. A pity that-"

"Stop it! Stop! - Imoen cried suddenly - "It's enough. You aren't going to torment us again, and no one else, not anymore! Go to hell!"

Before anyone could stop her, she lunged forward, hurling something that looked like a handful of firecrackers, straight into the mage's face. Gaelan gasped - and just then, glowing and pulsing with a bluish light, the outlines of several dimension doors that were opening all around the site appeared.

_Cowlies_.

It looked the day was indeed written entirely in red ink - but then, of course, it was only a matter of time before the bloody wizards decided to intervene. Such a powerful energy surge couldn't have go unnoticed in Athkatla, and the Cowled Wizards were very strict about any unsanctioned use of magic - unless when one decided to place a generous donation in the order's coffers, which was rather polite name on a common palm-greasing.

Having crawled under a fallen marquee, the rogue stayed there, flat on the ground while the magic missiles hissed and crackled in the air - be it nine times of ten or no, he had surely pushed his luck enough for one afternoon.

He didn't know how long the skirmish took, or why the mad mage surrendered so suddenly - or, why in Nine Hells would he demand the Imoen girl to be imprisoned as well.

She was crying.

"It was him! Can't you see? I did nothing wrong!"

"You too were involved in the illegal magic casting, young lady. You must go with us."

"Stay away from me!"

"Silence. Let us leave now."

"No, please!" - she sobbed - "I don't want to go, I don't! Not with him again, please! Somebody help me!"

Gaelan stayed low, his nose buried in a pile of kelp as the grey-robed figures were taking her and the mage away, and when strangers broke into argument, and after his ears rung with a hoarse - but undoubtedly female - shriek.

"Imoooeeeeeeeen!"

Actually, he hasn't done as much as flinch even as some cityguard trotted by, stomping right on his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaelan resurfaced, snorting and spitting.

"I swear on that goodie Helm, it was nothin' but a plain bolt I shot. I never bought a single thing from th' gnome peddlar." - he inhaled sharply as he rushed on another improvised explanation - "Err, actually, sure as gold I ain't even be knowin' no gnome, cross me heart an' hope to die if I be lyin'-"

"Bayle, are you high or what?" - a cool, sobering voice interrupted - "What is this nonsense you are blabbering about?"

"Ye gods!" - Gaelan sat upright at instant, splashing water and knocking few small items into the tub - "Couldn't ye at least cough or grunt or somethin', just so I know ye're there? I nearly jumped offa me skin!"

"Indeed. Let me guess... A guilty conscience, have you? You well should."

"Huh, do I?"

Hawkeye leaned from behind the wooden screen and sauntered into the room, unduly swaying her hips - a habit she has failed to get rid of so far that no sane person would ever point to her. Gaelan frowned. As he noticed straight away, she was dressed in her second set of leathers and fully geared; bracers, armoured pads on her shoulders, a scimitar strapped at her belt. Hilts of the several daggers tucked in her boots gleamed, freshly oiled. A disdainful scowl on her face was nothing short of the usual, but the multitude of cloth strips woven in her hair, all around her head, made the rogue blink.

Once. Twice.

"Err... Hawky, what are them funny things ye's got there?"

The girl's eyes narrowed as she regarded him up and down - the kind of a lingering look that, had it come from any other woman, the rogue might have found flattering. Coming from Hawkeye, it was - at best - measuring.

"Curlers." - she replied sweetly - "And just so we are clear, I refuse to take any offence. Not from you, seeing as you sit in a barrel, bare-arsed."

"Point taken." - Gaelan nodded - "An' now, takin' we're already done exchangin' pleasantries: what are ye doin' here, anyway?"

"You have never reported back to the guildhall after the Promenade events. I must admit that I was quite concerned with your sudden disappearance. So was the boss."

"Err... He's not goin' t' kill me, does he?"

"Can't promise."

Hawkeye came to sit on the tub's edge. Without a word, she leaned over, plunging her hand into the soapy water.

The rogue stirred uncomfortably.

He probably imagined a light touch of fingers brushing against his thigh, tracing an abstract pattern across his hip and abdomen - more so that the sensation lasted only a second, and when Hawkeye finally held her palm up, they were curled around the razor's handle.

"Carefull, it's sharp."

There was a strange glint to her eyes as she moved closer - breathing liqorice in his face, the blade still in her hand - and for one funny moment, Gaelan thought she was either going to stab him or kiss him. On an impulse, not waiting for her to decide whichever to do, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against the girl's lips.

They were warm, salty-sweet.

Back when she worked in the streets, he had admittedly fucked Hawkeye - paid her for that - but now, it occured to him that he'd never kissed her before.

One doesn't bother with kissing a whore.

Hawkeye let out a surprised gasp, her eyelashes fluttering. She held still for what was no more than a breath - then jerked away, the razor slipping from her hand and bouncing off the floor with a loud clang.

"Just as I thought. You're one irreformable idiot, aren't you?"

Gaelan grinned - licking his lips in just a little ostentatious manner - and regarded the girl curiously.

She stood now with her back turned, but from the hard, stiff set of her shoulders, he could tell she was fuming.

"There's smoke comin' out of yer ears, Hawky." - he teased - "Does it mean ye didn't like it? Odd, that. Most girls does, as I recall."

"I'm not 'most girls', and I care not for your antics. And even more so, seeing as you have obviously fallen on your head-"

"Not exactly, but I does had me fair share of fallin' today, sure enough."

"Yes, and the fact you're still alive just proves that you have more luck than wits!" - she snarled suddenly - "You buggering fool! What in the all Nine Hells made you crawl that bloody rope?"

"Well-"

"Don't you ever dare to do that to me again."

"I... Oh, wait." - the rogue cocked his head - "Ye mean, ye really worried 'bout me, did ye not?"

Hawkeye recoiled and thrown a towel into his face.

"I told you already, and I hate to repeat myself." - she replied in tone that could have freeze the water - "And just so you don't get any ideas, I'm not here for the pleasure of your company, which despite of what you likely think, is rather dubious. The boss is looking for you, so better get dressed, and fast. You're going to have guests."

Gaelan blinked.

"What, now? Here?"

"Didn't I just mention it a minute ago? You have never reported back; I would have told you more, too, have you not insisted on playing daft. Oh, and I hope you are not far down this bottle?"

"Nay. And this is a healin' potion."

Hawkeye raised her hands up in a mock surrender.

"Of course, that precisely explains the reason you reek of whiskey. How come I have never guessed myself?"

"They be a nasty stuff, them medicaments" - he shrugged - "An' besides, I've only added a little somethin' stronger to kill the taste."

"Why, I wouldn't mind something stronger myself, dear lad."- said a smooth, distinctive male voice - "But not mixed, if you please."

Gaelan stiffled a curse and threw Hawkeye an accusing glare - at which she responded with quite a smug smirk - when the two men, equally slim, one just slightly taller than the other - walked into the room, the floor barely creaking under their feet.

_Mask, this day has no end_ , he thought wryly. It was just so like him - first being stuck in the blasted tower, then landing with his nose in a pile of fish guts, and now, this. Receiving a visit from both the Spymaster and the Silhouette of Burglars while stark naked and sitting in a bathtube.

Things certainly couldn't have gotten any more awkward.

"Oh, and no, don't to stand up." - the man waved his hand - "I certainly won't miss the sight."

Left with no other choice, Gaelan reached behind and - for the lack of a dagger - raised his shaving blade in a salute, grinning furiously all the while.

"Master, sir." - he said, bowing his head - "Er, sorry. Wasn't expectin to see ye's, sure as gold."

Judging from their expressions, Oryal Forestal and Renal Bloodscalp found the situation about equally humorous.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

"So, lad, from what you've just said, I understand that you have seen the whole incident from quite an up close."

Gaelan - embarassed and relieved to hear that afterall, the wreckage of the Promenade had absolutely nothing to do with his unfortunate shot - straightened, regarding his superiors. Of course it was plain foolish from his side, to think that one bolt would have done such a damage.

Not surprisingly, Renal found his stuttered explanation extremely amusing.

"My, you must have hit your head pretty hard indeed. Your partner warned us."

"It' nothin'." - the rogue ensured hastily - "Not a bother on me."

"Good, very good. There are several new circumstances that we were not aware until now." - Bloodscalp said - "Nevertheless, we could make them work for the benefit of us all."

"I'll be all ears, boss?"

Renal sat on the bench, one hand propped casually behind his head, a cup in the other. Oryal Forestal, cross-legged and on the floor, wasn't drinking.

Even to someone well used to it as he was, the striking resemblance between these two men - defying the very fact that one was human and the other a half-elf - was at times a wee bit disturbing. They were both green-eyed and dark-haired, though Oryal's was long, held together with a leather strap, whereas Renal's cropped and shaven on the side. Precisely, only one side. Pink line of the fresh scar run there - the reminder of assassination attempt from two months ago. A stupid attempt, if anyone have asked; when it come to paying debts, the chief burglar was very scrupulous. The results were far from pretty - though usually affable and soft-spoken, Renal wasn't nicknamed 'Bloodscalp' just for laughs.

Oryal was a silent presence, an incarnation of spy's motto 'speak a little, listen much' - to an outsider it might look as if he was somewhat subdued by his counterpart, but within the guild, where the years of close friendship between them were a widely known fact, it was obvious that more cordial Renal simply happened to be a mouthpiece.

To be honest, Gaelan preffered it this way - when Oryal decided to speak, he habitually finished the other man's sentences - and most of times, with odd accuracy that he found downright creepy. There was something unsettling about the man that the younger rogue couldn't really pin; the spymaster's pock-marked face and deep set, hooded eyes did little to improve overall impression.

Inclining slightly, he managed to catch a glimpse of Hawkeye; he suppressed a chuckle. The girl's fingers worked quickly, combing through her hair, picking the cloth strips out, her dark strands coming out in a wildly tangled mess. It wasn't hard to see the reason she was so pissed off - they probably dragged her out of a bathhouse as well. She occupied the very edge of the bench and did not speak once save for the rather formal greeting; her expression shifting from thoughtful to guarded, to carefully neutral.

"Our mysterious strangers, the girl and her group, are of interest."

"That so? Th' one that th' Cowlies took away? Imoen be 'er name." - Gaelan instantly recalled - "But she be as good as dead, no? Them bloody wizards, they won't let 'er go now that they put their paws on her."

"Oh no, I don't mean Imoen, though there is one certain use for her. I'll explain it to you in a moment." - Renal took a sip from his cup - "For the time being, it is the other one that concerns us more. You see, from what we have learned so far, their presence in Irenicus's dungeon turns out to be nothing close to accidental. They are the adventurers with quite a name on the Sword Coast, heroes of many a song. The mage, or maybe someone in his employ, abducted them a while ago and held them prisoners since. It would appear it was our intervention that let them escape his clutches."

"Indeed." - the Spymaster murmured - "Even if only by pure chance."

The rogue nodded.

"Aye, that be explainin' a lot. They seemed in a bad shape alright."

"Well, after what we've seen today, I reckon that we shouldn't have expected Irenicus to play the role of the gracious host." - Oryal said dryly - "Or could we?"

According to what Gaelan has been told, not a single man of twenty assassin who were send down to the dungeon came back. And he'd seen the corpses, and what the mage has done to Vynn.

It sure wasn't his most pleasant memory of the day.

"Who they be, then?"

"Ah, yes." - the chief burglar's mouth curled up - "This is exactly where the things get really interesting. You see, this one lassie he kept locked in his place, she's not just any adventurer. She's the Bhaalspawn."

"A Bhaalspawn..?"

"No, _the_ Bhaalspawn. The very same girl who has stopped the war between Amn and Baldur's Gate just a few months ago." - Oryal said - "Her name is Millara. Millara of Candlekeep. And believe me, if we play it out right, she'll sure be willing to build us a stairway up to the sky and more."

The rogue shifted with a splash.

"Aye?"

"From what we've heard, little darling Millara is almost slavishly devoted to her friend. I would dare to expect that the promise of Imoen being returned to her would be just enough to make her cooperative. We must act very fast, though, and as for the time being, it is also going to involve quite a lot of bluffing." - Renal grinned broadly - "This is also where I'm expecting you to step onto the stage. Say, lad, are you up to the task?"

Gaelan found himself grinning back, even before he answered.

 

* * *

 

 

They haven't allowed her into the main quarters of the garrison.

Instead, Millara and Minsc - for the safety reasons, as officer Esme vaguely stated, though she did not say whose safety she had in mind - were to be confined and wait.

The room that guards locked them in was small, with a single barred window and heavily reinforced door, empty save for battered table and narrow wooden bench chained to the wall.

To be fair, the reason why she was confined - as Jaheira said while dealing her a sharp slap to the face - was because she acted 'hysterically', 'recklessly', and - along with an enraged Minsc - had almost gotten them all killed, if not for the druid and Yoshimo, both of whom stayed calm even when faced with a dozen armed men. While she and the ranger struggled, pinned to the ground, Jaheira somehow managed to convince the guard's captain that they were of no danger, and agreed to follow her to the garrison, to explain their part in the Promenade events and enquire about Imoen.

They were in Athkatla, the Amn capital, Yoshimo hushedly explained her along the way, his arm locked around her elbow. To reassure her, Millara guessed. She just nodded, hiding her face beneath the hood, squinting. Her eyes hurt from the afternoon glare.

It felt... Odd, if anything, to see the sun again.

Inside of the garrison was cool and quiet, and it made her shudder.

She couldn't tell the exact time, but judging from the way the light seeping in through the window has changed - from the day's golden glow to the soft, hazy pinks of a sunset - it must have been hours. Still resentful, Millara refused the water and towels they offered her, but greedily took to the pitcher of wine that someone has left on the table. By now, the pitcher was empty and she was almost comfortably numb.

Almost.

At first, she paced restlessly; her palm still felt slick with Imoen's sweat; trapped in the very moment they held on to each other, when she promised she won't let them take her, when she felt her grip loosening, fingers slipping one by one as the grey-robed men wrenched them apart …

Her throat burned, raw, sore.

It was very quiet, save for the occasional clatter of the horse hooves coming from the street above, and doors creaking somewhere in the corridor.

Minsc sat on the bench's edge, his shoulders hunched, absentmindedly stroking the little ball of fluff that was his pet hamster. Boo, oblivious to the situation, slept, snugly curled up in his palm. When the ranger gazed up to her, his face very young and uncertain under the fearsome tribal tattoos; it was just so easy to forget that the hulking giant of a man was but a few years older than she.

He has hardly moved since they were locked here, and he never touched the drink guards gave them, lost in his own grief Dynaheir.

Since the day they have met, Millara used to look up to Minsc as a big brother figure; a brother that did not try to kill her - an orphan's dream about family made true. His bear-like frame, honesty and seemingly irrepressible spirit was the solid, comforting presence in her life. Of course, he knew what she was - but sometimes, Millara wondered if he ever really understood.

Bhaalspawn or not, in his eyes she was a good person, a hero - the bitterness of it hurt - if she has told him she was a squirrel, he would accept it. Minsc's world was a simple place where the evil was to be smote and the good always won, like in all these stories he has loved so much.

That made his anguish even harder.

Dynaheir…

Their captor made her watch.

The manacles, the razor-edged knives and hooks, the vials filled with thick green liquid that, when rubbed in the skin, made it dissolve, crack and flake.

Watch and learn, he told her. She watched and couldn't turn away, couldn't close her eyes, couldn't do nothing, say nothing, immobile, held in place with his magic. The wychlarn was proud and did not scream.

Millara blinked - the memory was mercifully dim, blurred - save for one thing.

That he released her later. A blade, he gave her.

Then, he gave her a choice, and she obeyed, crying.

"Minsc-"

She swallowed and broke in mid-sentence.

There were no words she could think about that would not sound cruel and meaningless; the Rashemi trio was now down to duo, with nothing to be done to make things right again. Hesitantly, the half-elf reached across the table, covering the big man's one free hand with her own. Minsc's clenched fist was bone-white.

"He will pay, Millara." - he whispered - "We'll make him. You help me, yes?"

"I promise."

Millara shuddered, gazing down into the empty pitcher, unable to meet his eyes.

She knew she would never tell Minsc that after what seemed to be an hours and hours of torment, Dynaheir eventually broke down and screamed. And that she just kept screaming until her voice was no more than inhuman rasp, crimson froth welling from her ruined mouth - and that it wasn't Irenicus who killed her. 

 

* * *

 

 

It has been always like this for Hawkeye.

The youngest and only daughter of a nobleman, born long after her parents finished having children - or so they thought - and with four brothers well on the way to adulthood, she was a presence disregarded - both unexpected and unwanted - aloof, silent girl with sullen mouth.

A shadow.

Quickly she learned the benefits of watching while remaining unseen herself, listening where the others talked. First in her family home, before she has turned sixteen and her father decided to sell her off to some stranger. Then in the chambers of the calishyte swine's that was her lord husband - and then, finally, in the streets of Athkatla.

With her face carefully blank, she listened to the detailed operation plan being laid out before them. She didn't like it - one didn't have to be born and raised guttersnipe to smell a rat from a distance. And she smelled a rat.

"You'll be in charge of the group, naturally. I'll give you Jasmir, Keith, Toy and Arledrian, and of course, your usual partner here." - Bloodscalp said, giving Hawkeye a small, friendly nod of acknowledgement - "She will make a fine second-in-command, I imagine."

"I've contacted Husam." - the Spymaster added - "His young ones won't be as conspicious as regular scouts, and he already knows what to do. You'll have a report at every third hour of a day, and twice at night."

The rogue nodded vigorously. Bloodscalp smiled. Hawkeye shifted on the bench, growing ill at ease with every passing second.

It was not as if she doubted the guildmaster's smile being a genuine one. It certainly was - when not vexed, Renal was a surprisingly pleasant person to be around. The trouble was, Hawkeye has been through enough to see far too many people - and Bloodscalp unfortunately among them - doing the nastiest, most hideous things with a cheerful smile on their faces.

Not that it mattered now.

"It's time."

Pointedly, Oryal looked at the door.

The other guildmaster finished his drink and stood up, stretching.

"Very well then. Get ready, lad. You too, sweetling." - he said - "There's a work waiting to be done."

"But 'course I'm in, boss!" - Gaelan exclaimed brightly - "Ye hear that, Hawky?"

The rogue stayed in the tub until both men left - busy with stirring, splashing water, talking and grinning like a lunatic, his hazel eyes practically glowing at the challenge.

Hawkeye frowned fiercely, thinking. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Ye're grumblin' like some old spinster. What's wrong with ye, lass?"

Hawkeye let out an exasperated sigh.

"Everything. Nothing." - she said - "I've told you, I just don't like it, it's all."

Gaelan shrugged impatiently.Of course she didn't.

"Mask, ye're such a wet blanket. What's not t' like? I've never been charged with nothin' as big before, an'-"

"Precisely." - the girl shook her head - "And now, all of a sudden, they seek you out and you do what? Jump up, ready to please without giving it as much as a thought. How old are you again, thirteen?"

"Aye, from a quite some time." - he said - "So be it. An' yer point is..?"

"Have you not wondered for a second why did they choose you, of all people?"

The rogue looked at her with a growing annoyance. Hawkeye didn't move from her place on the bench and sat there sulking; one leg kicking at the wall, her arms tightly crossed.

Ignoring her mood, he reached for a towel and proceeded with drying his hair. His chin stung a little; he must have cut himself in his attempt at a blind shave.

"I's good a grifter, that's why."

"Maybe, but there are better in the city."

"Not _that_ much better, it seems. Anyway, lyin' and bluffin' is what I've been doin' near me whole life. Bloodscalp knows it, and he knows _me_ since I was but a boy." - Gaelan snorted - "Now, if ye could perhaps be so kind and leave? I want t' dress meself."

The girl's lip curled up in a smirk.

"Please do, don't mind me a bit. It's not as if I have never seen how a man looks down there. Or you, for that matter."

"I'm well aware. Seriously though, get out."

"Since when you're so modest, Bayle?"

Gaelan rolled his eyes.

"Ye gods. Go on, then. Enjoy th' view."

With yet another shrug, he climbed out of the bathtub, the floor cool and slippery under his bare feet.

A low, amused chuckle escaped his mouth when Hawkeye sprung up as if bitten by a gnat, and rather hurriedly ducked behind the screen.

"What is it now, Hawky?" - he called - "Did somethin' scared ye?"

She didn't answer. Gaelan put towel away and leaned to retrieve his clothes - then swore, scratching at his forehead. Rushing to the bath-house straight from a battlefield as he did - of sorts - it didn't appear neccessarily surprising that the only clothes he was left with were the very same he'd only taken from his back mere hour before.

They lied crumpled in a pool of water - dirty, stinking of sweat, blood, and fish offal.

"Fuck."

"You'd wish, don't you?"

Something rustled nearby, and a towel-wrapped bundle landed softly under his feet.

Curious, the rogue squatted and looked inside. He grinned, feeling the wool and worn leather, soft and supple under his fingertips.

"That's a golden girl."

Hawkeye stirred, still hidden somewhere behind the screen.

"Your old set reeks to high heavens I imagine, and these looked rather fine on the washing line at the inn's back." - she said nonchalantly - "Oh, and by the way, I believe you are in dire need of someone to help you shave properly. You look ridiculous."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"I have a lot of experience in the matter, you know. I've been shaving my husband for three years, each morning."

The rogue grimaced. She told him long ago, and only once - the girl definitely had too much wine that night - something about what her marriage was like.

"Well, aye. I also seem t' recall ye mentioned he'd gone with a red smile, innit?"

Hawkeye snorted in reply.

Gaelan pulled the breeches on, fabric dragging slightly over his still damp skin. They were a tad too wide in the waist. He laced them tightly and fastened his belt's buckle, then reached for a tunic, shaking his head.

"It's not that I don't trust ye, Hawky. I really do." - he added as an afterthought - "Alas, a day I'll give ye blade an' let ye hold it to me throat won't come unless I have a death wish. Not likely to 'appen anytime soon."

The girl said nothing for a while. She shifted on her feet, floor creaking under heavy soles.

"Suit yourself, I'll be waiting outside. Hurry up."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Silvanus be patient. Millara, you are stone drunk!"

"Where is she?"

It was enough to look at the druid's face to know that not everything was all right, despite Yoshimo's immediate assurance as the door opened and they walked into the room. Office Esme proved to be more understanding than expected, and deemed their part in the Promenade's disturbances incidental; they were free to leave the garrison now, but Jaheira clearly avoided her gaze.

And she was babbling.

Millara has came to know the druid well - and surely well enough to be aware how much she despised idle talk. Her skin crawled with unease.

"It seems that we'll have to stay in Athkatla for a little while; we will need funds and I have send the messenger who should be able to locate Khalid, even if he'd left Baldur's Gate since we-"

"But why?" - Millara asked, searching other woman's face - "Where is Imoen? Why is she not with you, if everything is fine?"

"See, young one, there is a problem that-" -Yoshimo started, and broke off, squirming under Jaheira's glare.

Feeling sick, Millara took few wobbly steps toward them, her fists balled.

"Jaheira, please." - she said - "Just tell me."

The druid cleared her throat.

"Child, your hysterics won't help her. If you could sit down and listen to me once-"

"I've sat long enough, you let them to lock me, as if I was rabid animal! Tell me, would you be calm if it was Khalid who was taken away from you?" - she could hear her own voice, hoarse and pitching dangerously - "Would you, really?"

Jaheira's jaw set tighter and Millara thought she would slap her yet again - but the druid's grey eyes were only tired when she finally looked down to her.

"It is… complicated. Much more than we thought at first. That place they imprisoned her in, it's not an ordinary gaol. Imoen, she-" - unexpectedly, Jaheira stepped closer and wrapped her in the awkward, shoulder-draping hug.

Millara felt her breath hitch as the druid pulled her closer, resting chin on the top of her head - it felt just so plainly wrong, so completely out of character that she understood, there and then.

They just didn't know. It was as if the trapdoor has opened under her feet, and she was falling, spiralling down - the druid's answer, when it finally came, was unnecessary.

She heard them talking, but she wasn't listening.

"... to the Copper Coronet... There's is a chance that we can find out..."

"The Cowled Wizards, they..."

Managing to break free from the other woman's embrace, Millara leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, the stone cool and smooth on her skin. She thought she felt a hand as it brushed against her arm and then curled around her elbow, tugging.

"Tomorrow, we might... In the Government District... " "...Maybe..."

Someone, at the same time firmly and gently, prompted her to go.Then they were dragging her, the very ground beneath her feet seeming to shift like quicksand.

Stumbling, walking mechanically as in a dream, Millara allowed them to lead her through the winding, narrow streets, the foreign architecture of the city nothing but the flurry of colours muted in the near-darkness, the air smelling of burning waste and open gutters, the sounds around her no more than an indistinct murmur.

She just went along.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaelan leaned against a dirty wall, squinting in the street lantern's flickering light.

Just like always at this particular time of the evening, the slums were still much alive - someone, a very drunken sailor most likely, sung a bawdy song on the top of his voice. In the narrow archway nearby, daytime beggars disposed carefully of their fake wooden legs and walking sticks, just to resurface as petty thieves and peddlers of forbidden goods. Ladies of the night waited for the customers, their dresses ranging from the bold and revealing to plain made revealing, to ordinary rags.

Impatiently, the rogue shooed away a stray dog that came too near.

A bit of gravel fell from the roof where Arledrian, Hawkeye, Jasmir and a few others waited with their crossbows at hand - a neccessary precaution, Oryal said - landing right under his feet.

The mark was close.

He took a deep breath and readied himself.

As they walked from around the corner, he immediately picked out the leader - the half-elven woman they have told him the Bhaalspawn was.

She was muscular yet graceful, and quite stunning despite grim expression on her face and tattered clothes she wore - and didn't seem to notice him.

Gaelan whistled loudly - and when she startled, looking at him with narrowed eyes, he gave her his most respectful smile.

"'Tain't sure not th' nicest place for a stroll to the likes o' ye." - he called - "May it be ye's lookin' for somethin' particular this side a river, me lady?"

 

* * *

 

 

Jaheira didn't like the way the stranger grinned.

Leaning casually against the wall and dressed in a manner that suggested just about anything in between a dock worker and common guttersnipe - heavy boots, a simple tunic under worn leather jerkin - his smile was simply too wide and cocky, despite his attempts at being polite.

The druid was in charge now - tired, aching from head to toe and worried as she was - and definitely had no intention in getting into any more troubles than they already had.

He stood there, clearly waiting for her to say something.

"We're just passing by." - Jaheira replied - "And I fail to see any reason this should be your business, too. Let us be."

"That so? Right odd, and sure enough, not what a little bird tells me." - the man cocked his head, looking unabashed - "Mayhaps I knows something that ye might be interested in, eh?"

"Listen, lout, I've no interest in whatever you have to offer."

"I shall think ye do."

Jaheira took two steady steps forward, with Yoshimo right at her side. She could see his hand as it wandered slowly to his blade's hilt. Behind her, Minsc stirred restlessly.

"Careful." - the Kara-Turan whispered - "He might be armed."

The stranger must have heard it, too.

"Gods, why so nervous, me lady?" - he's shown her his own empty hands - "I mean ye no harm, see? Just wanted to talk, is all."

The druid nodded at Yoshimo - the response was the barely audible hiss of a drawn steel. She stared at the man - quite expectedly, he seemed to crumple at the obvious threat, his shoulders slumping as he rocked on his heels.

"Good." - she said - "Now, either make it quick, or begone. What is it do you want? I've no coin to spare."

"An' who said I be after yer coin?"

"Isn't it what everybody in this accursed place is after?"

"Me? Nay. But yer sort doesn't come to th' slums for no reason, innit?" - the stranger glanced around - "Say, don't ye be lookin for someone? No lost friends ye'd much like t' see again? A bonny young lass arrested for spellcastin', perhaps?"

The druid regarded him, willing her face to look neutral and disinterested.

"As I just said, I have no idea what are you talking about."

"Surely. But maybe ye 'appen to be named Millara?"

"I am most certainly not." - she replied chillingly - "And now if you excuse us-"

"It's me. "

Somewhat shaky on her feet, Millara moved forward, her eyes fixed on the stranger and unnaturally shining.

 _Drunk as a wheel-barrow, the foolish girl_.

With her jaw clenched, Jaheira reached out to stop her. With a grace surprising in someone in such state, Millara ducked under her elbow, ignoring her completely as she approached the man.

The stranger's attention shifted, cheeky grin wiped clean from his face as he stared down at her.

He was no giant, but standing next to him, Jaheira's ward looked almost painfully childlike, small and thin in her ill-fitting excuse of the clothes.

"There." - the man shook his head, looking vaguely puzzled - "Seems it's either that I be daft and got it all wrong, or me sources of information are not as infallible as I be thinkin'."

"Please. Do you know where is she? Imoen?"

"So, ye're Millara, missy? I be lookin for ye."

"Yes."

Jaheira thought it was the first time that girl spoke since they left the garrison two hours ago. She felt her teeth grind, torn between compassion and a suddenly strong urge to kick her.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

If there was something that Gaelan did not expect, it was for a demigoddes to look so very much like a half-starved waif.

Her hair - silvery in a dim light - desperately needed a good wash. She smelled like a slum dweller, of stale sweat and soured wine, and under the layer of grime that covered her face, he couldn't say for sure what the Bhaalspawn girl actually looked like. Was she a random passer-by, he wouldn't have given her a second glance.

There were also several other things the rogue had not anticipated - this included the renowned heroine of the Sword Coast puking all over his boots and then fainting on him, or the large, bald man's - Minsc was the name, he recalled - fist being quite so heavy.

Gaelan winced, rubbing his cheek. It hurt, and his ear still rung from the blow.

"Twas' sure unnecessary, me big friend." - he complained - "Blimey, one could think ye gone an' swapped paws with a bleedin' stone golem!"

"No one touches Millara when I watch." - Minsc growled ominously - "Hear me? No tricks from you, now."

The rogue shrugged.

"Aye, as ye have it, mate." - he huffed, refraining from the mention that actually, had he not stepped up and caught the girl in time, she would have slumped straight onto the pavement and lost about all her teeth.

Looking at the bright side, at least the blade, for one unpleasant moment drawn close to his spine, disappeared. Yoshimo stood a few feet away, scanning the street with narrowed eyes, his expression guarded. Gaelan thought his face familiar back on the Promenade, and as it turned out, he wasn't mistaken. He still had no idea what could've possibly bring Yoshimo down the Irenicus' den, or how he'd ended in the Bhaalspawn girl's company, but Renal had no love and a very little patience for independents, and Yoshimo was stupidly pushing it for far too long. This - as the chief burglar pointed out - could be easily turned into an asset. The fellow's last encounter with the guild was on no account an enjoyable one, of that Gaelan was sure. Hopefully, it mellowed him enough to make him cooperative.

Yoshimo's dark eyes darted in his direction, once, twice, leaving him wondering whatever the Kozakuran thief recognised him, too - they've only ever met in passing - although even if he did, he obviously knew better than to say so aloud.

_Good._

The other half-elven woman, the bossy redhead whom he mistook for the Bhaalspawn - Jaheira - crouched beside, murmuring words in the language the rogue didn't know. Light danced between her fingers, a cat's cradle of fire. He could smell magic, the priestly stuff - the scent of it was different to arcane; instead of metal and ozone, it was a reminder of damp moss and freshly cut grass and earth in a hot day.

Millara of Candlekeep, sprawled across his lap and still unconscious, shivered.

 

He didn't really mind her being there - she was a tiny thing, about as heavy as a bundle of twigs. At the very least, it seemed unlikely for Minsc to punch him again while he held her - as long as he thought the girl was safe. Gaelan sat still and wisely kept hands to himself, having no intention of pushing the man any further. Even if not the brightest torch on the wall, his loyalty left no place for a doubt.

But then, Minsc couldn't have known how little separated him and his friends from being packed full of holes, had the Shadow Thieves hidden above decided one of their own was in danger and acted on it. The rogue sighed and glanced up, feigning disinterest. There was no sign of activity there. Not a rustle, not an impatient grunt, not a creak of a boot on a shingle that would betray their presence.

Millara whimpered and curled up; even through thick wool, he could feel bony fingers convulsively gripping and digging into his ribs. Whatever magic Jaheira woman was working over the girl, it was obviously painful.

He frowned, remembering this one time - not too long ago - when after a bar brawl turned awry, a Thalessan priestess tended to his dislocated shoulder. Although he found followers of Thalos a tad disturbing bunch and definitely not the first choice of people he would seek help from any other day, distracted and too busy with spouting profanities, Gaelan didn't care which church he was being dragged to. Also, he couldn't recall whatever the spell itself hurt or not, but - as the Weathermistress Ada remarked with a particularly charming smile - the magic alone won't put a bone back into its place.

He had done his best to forget it.

"What's wrong with 'er?"

The question left his mouth before he could think better of it, earning him yet another wary glance.

"Apart from being smashed like a sailor on a home-coming night? She'll be fine."

"Aye, it's only that it looks like she-"

"Oh, fret not, it won't kill her. Not after what she's been through, but since you claim to be so perfectly informed, I'm sure you are aware of what was that, don't you?" - Jaheira snapped, her slate-grey eyes unfriendly and cold like Alturiak's morning.

Gaelan shrugged. The magic light in the woman's hand flickered and faded away. She straightened her back, exhaling loudly.

"Am I bein' far wrong now, or that been some kind o' the healin' spell?" - the rogue enquired again, in what he thought a polite tone - "Lady Jaheira?"

He could almost hear the druid's teeth gnash.

"Indeed."

"Coo! Err, so, could ye perhaps-"

"No."

Gaelan pointed his finger at Minsc.

"Come on now, missus. That pet giant of youse nearly knocked me brains offa me head, he did! Couldn't ye at least-"

"Are you deaf or daft?" - she hissed - "Or, Silvanus forbid, both?"

The way in which Jaheira glared at him was just all too familiar; so was the fierce scowl that adorned her face. She was a looker alright - leonine, full lips, almond-shaped eyes - in a regal, frosty, eat-your-heart way.

The rogue sighed. He knew better than to try argue his point with this particular type of women. He tried to turn attention elsewhere, but yet again, he wasn't in for much comfort - Minsc stood there, towering over him and alert, his gaze unwavering, obviously ready and willing to hurt him some more.

"Why won't ye sit down?" - Gaelan asked wearily - "I really ain't goin' to snatch yer baby girl an' run."

"Never said you would. Just checking that you won't, little man."

There was a rodent climbing up his arm, but Minsc doesn't seem to neither notice nor care, and didn't answer when the rogue commented on it halfheartedly. Gaelan watched as he dug in his belt pouch, producing a dried fruit sliver and offering it to the animal. It made him wonder whatever the man was completely right in the head.

Got one too many a blow in that thick, tattooed skull of his, more like.

He leaned back as Jaheira stooped over the girl and brushed away damp hair stuck to her forehead. There was that strange look on her face again, an odd mix of worry, grudging affection and growing annoyance. She sat on the ground close by him - almost too close - in what the rogue thought was an ostensibly casual manner.

"So, first things first." - the druid murmured - "Now, my oh-so-mysterious stranger, how about you do me a favour and tell me who in the Nine Hells are you?"

She crossed her arms, glancing at him sideways, their shoulders touching. Gaelan cleared his throat; here was the hard part coming, but he had a plan.

Sort of.

 

* * *

 

 

The pain was good.

It brought the consciousness back as it seared through her body, like a multitude of tiny hot and cold needles pricking at her skin, both outside and inside - tingling, burning while her tainted blood fought against the surge of healing magic.

Once, after Jaheira had treated gash left on Khalid's arm after a direwolf's bite, Millara asked him how does it feel, the Oakfather's touch.

Like scorching sunrays and rain on leaves, the warrior stuttered, smiling.

His answer left Millara puzzled, worried.

She had never experienced nothing like what he described, save maybe for the scorching part. Some time later that day, Jaheira explained - not unkindly - that perhaps, it was her sire's essence. Though long dead and gone, Bhaal owned part of her soul, making her body reject the other gods' blessings.

It did nothing to comfort her.

Dynaheir had taken her aside and shown her how to brew a poppy tea to ease the pain and aid in sleep, instructing how she should never let it get too strong. The poppy is a lethal poison when misused, the Rashemi mage warned. Millara knew the recepture well, having learn it by heart a long time before; she lavishly thanked the wychlarn and did not say so aloud.

Her fingers found a woolen cloth and tugged on it as she hovered between murky waters of delirium and slowly returning awareness.

She smelled yarrow, smoke and soap.

Warmth.

Soft breaths tickling her ear, a light heaving of someone's chest rising and falling.

A hand came down and brushed across her damp forehead, fingers calloused and rough.

_Wake up. Millara, wake up. We have to get out of here._

Millara stirred, her lashes fluttering as she struggled to force eyes open, finally remembering Athkatla.

Irenicus.

Imoen and the grey-robed wizards.

A haggard man with no legs, asking them for a coin and his toothless grin; a courtesan with hair dyed brassy yellow and a baby in her arms; children, two boys and a little girl, laughing as they played with a dead magpie tied to a stick, its wings flapping limply; dirt and rats milling under their feet.

The stranger in slums who knew them.

Whispers, voices.

She heard Jaheira's snarking and Minsc's occasional threats; the third voice wasn't Yoshimo's, heavily accented and unfamiliar as it was. It hurt her ears, raucous and loud, too close.

Much too close.

 

* * *

 

 

"Th' name be Gaelan Bayle."

He glanced up at Yoshimo, who fidgeted slightly at that. It seemed he was right, afterall - and judging from the grim look Jaheira shot the Kozakuran, she was starting to suspect something along the lines, too.

"Ain't used t' keepin' such a grand company as yerselves." - the rogue added amiably - "Ye will have to forgive me bad manners so far, m'lady."

The druid arched her eyebrows, staring straight into his face. He noticed a fading bruise across her cheekbone, and a swollen bottom lip.

"Unnecessary. And just so we're clear, mister Bayle." - she said - "If that's indeed your name, in which I must admit I sadly doubt-"

"It is."

"Ah."

"I told ye, I come in peace." - the rogue let his shoulders slump a little - "What's me business in hidin' me name from ye now, anyway?"

"But of course." - Jaheira nodded - "For if you had one, then undoubtedly you'd share the reasons with me."

"Ye's near readin' me very heart, lady."

"I can't possibly think about a single valid reason to trust you."

Mere minutes after the Bhaalspawn girl passed out, and Gaelan was already sure he and Jaheira weren't going to get along.

"Well, 'course ye canna." - he shrugged, then smiled - "Was I in yer shoes... Alas, not all strangers are to be feared. I'm th' friendly sort. Yoshimo lad over there 'appened by me before, an' sure can be tellin' much th' same thing, eh? Remember me rumly, me ol' cove, ain't ye?"

Gaelan let the hint drop with a deliberate ease, smiling still as he waited for it to sink in.

The Kozakuran thief grunted in reply, stepping closer and looking apologetically from Jaheira to the rogue and back. Frown on the woman's face deepened.

"Yoshimo..?"

"This I do." - he said reluctantly - "I wasn't sure until now, though."

"Heh. I'm not much surprised, m'lady." - Gaelan grinned - "Twas' a hell of th' night, aye? Never got no chance t' ask how's yer poor head, Yoshi. Must've been harsh. Ye never made it back ken afterwards, disappeared right like a pebble in th' well. All th' good lads left worryin' 'bout yer hide, an' ye didn't even think t' give us lot as much as a holler. Tsk. Shame on ye, mate, really."

"Appreciate your concern."

"Ye's thinkin' about makin' amends, then?"

"Maybe."

"Glad to hear that. Th' sooner, th' better, too."

Jaheira listened to the exchange with suspiciously calm expression.

"Care to explain what is it all about?"

"I mean, I offer th' help ye need, and Yoshimo fellow will guarantee no harm will come t' ye at me hands." - Gaelan cut in, smoothly and well before the other man got a chance to speak - "A folly to refuse, I daresay, and more so whilst I canna' see ye bein' crowded with others rushin' to give ye hand. An' there will be no others."

Pointedly, he looked at Jaheira's ill-fitted excuse of an armour.

"Tis' called City o' Coin for a reason. Ye might well be a dragon slayers an' what have ye, but ye ain't look a kind to 'ave as much as two coppers t' rub together. Gettin' me drift already?"

"I've been to Athkatla before."

"So, ye should know all th' better. Them streets will swallow ye in no time. Would be a terrible misfortune for a husband t' loose such a lovely wife as yerself, eh?"

The woman's eyes flashed angrily.

"Listen, you-"

"Aw, c'mon now. Don't be thinkin' I try t' threaten ye, me lady. None a such."

Gaelan kept his voice level and quiet. He picked up a bit of twine and played with it idly, working his fingers into barely-there shapes; tiny loops and forks, not recognisable to the untrained eyes.

Briefly, he glanced at Yoshimo. The Kozakuran thief gave him a little nod and watched, keeping his face straight - wisely so.

 

* * *

 

 

It was taking too long.

Lying flat on her stomach, Hawkeye cursed inwardly.

The sight of the freelancer drawing steel caused alarm at their post, just as it was to be expected. So was the big man - the one with a half-wit look - knocking Bayle around. The rogue whined loudly about it, and didn't make a move to defend himself.

Hawkeye watched his act with her teeth clenched; a random punch wasn't enough for them to act on. The business was supposed to be a matter of the utmost importance, and the Spymaster's orders were very strict indeed. Avoid violence unless it really proves to be inevitable, he said. Keep calm and wait until the very last moment.

Hawkeye's lips pressed into tight, unhappy line.

Oryal was a good strategist and as opposed to some other guildmasters, he seemed to care about his subordinates. Mostly. All in all, it wasn't difficult to respect him.

Still, it didn't mean she liked it any more. Neither the orders that held her on the roof, nor the thing as a whole, and less with every passing second. Hawkeye couldn't quite believe that forcing one adventurer into cooperation - be it the _famous_ Bhaalspawn or not - would solve all the guild's problems. Far too many others apparently did, with the reckless idiot Bayle throwing his bumbling self headfirst in the middle of the mess brewing over. What was worse, he seemed to enjoy getting his bit of action.

Stationed to her left, Arledrian raised hand to his mouth, indicating for her to be quiet and do not move. Hawkeye mouthed a curse regarding the elf's mother's presumably unseeming carrying-on, shifting on her elbows and creeping closer to the roof's edge.

Below, the redheaded hag, the half-wit and the Kozakuran rat engaged in an argument as they obviously couldn't reach the agreement as to where to go now. The Bhaalspawn has not awoken. She just lay there, a pitiful thing wrapped in rags.

Some heroine.

Gaelan sounded as self-assured as usual, but she could quite easily tell that he was getting impatient with every wasted passing second.

The orc-brain, he was going to lose it. Bits of conversation that reached her ears only confirmed it.

Someone tapped lightly on her arm, and Hawkeye flinched.

She hated to be touched.

Turning around, she saw Jasmir quickly take her hand away. The other scout regarded her questioningly, gloved fingers flicking in a series of gestures.

_All's grand?_

Hawkeye shrugged, waving palm dismissively and pointing at her wrist.

_Yes. No bother._

Jasmir threw her straw-coloured, messy braid over her shoulder, unconsciously revealing twisted skin on her left temple and the ugly stump where the ear once had been. More rushed little signs followed; hesitation, a half-formed question, then Jasmir smiled.

_Girl, I'm mute, not blind._

Hawkeye grimaced fiercely.

_Used to do too much tongue-wagging, did you not? No wonder someone decided to relieve you and others of the problem._

The other scout's eyes widened, hurt written clearly within. She didn't care - did not want to care - as her fingers curled, forming more and more wicked words.

_Stove it. None of your fucking business._

She saw Arledrian stand up, waving at them to follow him. The party below was ready to move, and so were they.

Not making a sound, Hawkeye rose to her feet. Jasmir brushed past her, avoiding her gaze. Just as well. They crept along the chimney's wall and then onto another roof, the shingles damp and slippery under her feet. She caught another glimpse of the group - none of them looked up, not even once. Hawkeye blinked, considering her crossbow's trigger.

Just one wrong move, a mere flick of a finger, and the Hells would break loose on the streets.

It would have been so easy, to end this pathetic story before it started for good.

Another scout, Keith - she didn't know him well, a reason to dislike him about as justified as any other - went past, jostling her. Gravel crunched under her boot, loose bits falling down onto the cobbled street. Hawkeye held her breath.

It passed unnoticed.

She raised her hand, making sharp gestures with index and middle fingers, letting her temper flare - a convenience, a comfortable routine, something that kept her mind occupied when being numb wasn't an option anymore.

It warmed her.

It felt safe.

 

* * *

 

 

"Fine then. Still, as much as I'd love to say it is truly a pleasure to meet you, mister Bayle, I'm afraid that I'm not this good a liar." - the druid said - "You won't mind if we go straight to the point,then would you? Where is Imoen?"

Her near-pleasant tone didn't fool him; there was a vague, but icy edge to it. The rogue kept his eyes steady on hers, waiting as she searched his face. Then, he shook his head, glancing around and pulling up a rueful smile.

"Me apologies, but I won't tell ye no more. Not 'ere, not like that. Ye must understand, m'lady, it's nothin' personal, but th' information-"

"Again, apologies are unnecessary." - Jaheira's voice hardened - "Of course. Information costs, is that what you were saying?"

"Aye, this too." - the rogue said, his smile turning a little wry - "What I mean, though, it travels much faster than any of us would like. I dare say them walls heard right 'bout their fair share for tonight."

"True enough." - Yoshimo murmured, eyeing a harlot, middle-aged and dressed in fading glory, as she leaned nonchalantly against the nearby lamp post.

"What do you propose, then?"

"I 'appen t' live but a few street away. Why won't I take ye there and we can talk freely?"

The woman was silent for what seemed to be a very long moment.

"Indeed." - she nodded slowly - "This is a most amazingly convenient... coincidence."

 

* * *

 

 

"Jaheira."

Millara said the other woman's name in what was meant to be an accusing tone.

She felt better now, after a hot bath, but still somewhat light-headed. They have come to stay in the 'Copper Coronet' - despite having a somewhat disputable repute, it was decided they were less likely to draw attention in a place as crowded and a known haunt of sellswords and treasure hunters. After Jaheira spoke to the pug-nosed, stocky inkeep - Bernard - they were immediately given two quarters in the attic.

They were modest, given as they barely had enough coin between them to afford an accommodation at all - but they were rooms with real beds, with straw-stuffed matresses, blankets and cosy, if worn, quilts.

The same inkeep - some distant acquaintance of Jaheira's, as the Millara immediately began to suspect - provided them also with a fresh change of clothes, towels and some of the other essentials they have lacked, and tactfully did not comment at the sorry state of their group. The blue woolen frock and linen shift she was given were still too big for her, but it was warm and clean; Millara couldn't have asked for more.

The druid treated her with a spell to remove poison - namely, on the purpose of getting her body rid of all the alcohol she had drunk earlier this afternoon. She did nothing to cure the after-effects. Sore and winesick, Millara sipped slowly from her cup - a pale-yellow herbal tea the other woman ordered her to drink.

 

She dismissed the wave of childish resentment. There were other, more important matters.

"Jaheira, you should've at least give him a chance to speak. What if-"

"It was for your own good."

The druid's fork rose in the air as the woman stabbed at what was supposed to be a salmon croquette.

Fish was plentiful around here, and therefore, an affordable choice of meal for those travelling on a budget. Kitchen in the 'Copper Coronet' seemed ever busy, boasting cheap and cheerful house-specials like pan-fried sprats on a stick, smoked sea-trout bellies, piles of shrimp in herbed butter, and stewed mussels with pearl barley.

"Th' best seafood chowder this side a city." - the serving wench recited in tired tone - "Hope ye'll enjoy, luv."

Millara watched the girl go in a flutter of skirts and aprons, her thick dark braids swinging from side to side. Self-consciously, she touched her own hair.

She sighed.

At least they were clean now. Even though what once used to be a mass of curls reaching a half down her back - vain and stubborn, she refused to wear them any shorter - now hung barely past her shoulders. During their visit in the bath house, Jaheira deemed them too matted and tangled, and mercilessly cut the rest with a razor.

The half-elf hunched involuntarily, recalling the way in which the druid balked at her when she refused to undress, and the long, long silent moment when Jaheira gazed at her as Millara finally surrendered and took her clothes off, taking in the whole extent of damage that was done to her body.

"Does it hurt you still?"

"No."

"It will take time, but most of them will fade, eventually." - the other woman said softly - "You'll see."

They both knew it wasn't true.

As expected, the soup was a thin, watery affair, spiced with parsley, thyme and garlic. The portion was large and hot, though, and Millara enjoyed it indeed, dipping in bits of dark bread and spitting bones into a bowl, thoughtfully provided on the side. For some reason, she doubted that the crispy-edged, battered thing on the other woman's plate ever found itself in a close proximity with fish; the smell of burned grease was revolting. The inn's main hall was busy, crowded with the commoners - fishermen, dock workers, petty vendors, farmers and their families who came to the city for a market day; noisy with raised voices, laughter and clatter of spoons.

They sat at the table near the back door, she and Jaheira occupying one narrow bench, Yoshimo and Minsc seated at the upturned barrels, both oddly silent.

After the initial burst of outrage at their treatment back on the Promenade, the ranger seemed to fall in a stupor, his eyebrows raising and forehead creasing every now and then as he stared at nothing in particular.

Millara reached across the table.

"Minsc. You must eat something, or you won't be able to lift even Boo."

The ranger raised his head, looking at her as if she just spoke in draconic, or grew a beard and a third eye. She swallowed hard.

"Try the soup at least, it's really nice."

"It's fine, Millara." - Minsc set aside a spotlessly clean bowl - "Just thinking. Don't worry."

He looked very tired.

"He was lying through his teeth." - Jaheira repeated - "You don't know the customs of this place, Millara. I do, and I can assure you that the ones like him would promise you the sun and the moon and then-"

"He knew _my name_ and where to find us. Knew about Imoen, and you and Khalid and-"

"Yes, and this worried me the most, too." - she admitted, pushing a carrot around her plate - "So much for the coincidence. We must be very carefull."

"But he said Yoshimo have met him before."

Millara glanced towards the Kara-Turan. Yoshimo took a slow sip from his tankard, shaking his head.

"Only in passing, young one. I've told you already." - he said wearily - "True, I've learned a little about him from the word in the street, but-"

"Who is he, then?"

Yoshimo gave her a wry smile.

"He's a... A fellow in trade, so to speak. In quite a good standing amongst the kin, too."

The half-elf nodded thoughtfully, just as Jaheira threw another dagger of a glance in the man's direction.

It made her wonder.

"As I assumed, a scamp of one kind or the other." - the druid said dryly, putting her fork away with a clang - "Which means, not exactly someone to be trusted."

Millara snorted loudly. Jaheira turned to look at her.

"Millara, stop it. You know as well as him what I'm talking about."- she inclined her head towards the Kozakuran - "No offence, Yoshimo. Nothing personal."

"None taken."

"Tomorrow morning, we should go to the government district to enquire." - the druid added - "I've already asked Bernard to send a messenger and see if the city magistrate would receive us. Is any of you still hungry, no?"

Yoshimo indicated his already empty plate, just as Minsc raised a bowl to his mouth and finished all the leftover chowder in a few noisy slurps. It seemed that his stomach's needs finally prevailed over the brooding mood. The half-elf shook her head.

"I'm full."

"That's good. You need to rest, child."

Jaheira stood up and reached to rest a hand on the top of her shoulder. Millara sighed, finishing her tea.

It left a faint, bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

She closed her eyes, easily recognising valerian and skullcap hidden under cinnamon and flowery sweetness of clover honey.

Just as well.

"We all need."

 

* * *

 

 

"Blimey, I'm perished. Should've brought some wine."

Gaelan adjusted cloak over his shoulders.

Mirtul was most capricious this year. After the day's heat, night came unexpectedly cold and damp - sticky with fog, starless. The slanting roof offered a little comfort, slippery with lichens as it was, the air heavy with chimney smoke.

He squinted, peering into a dirty square of the window. The room was empty, so far.

"So. I presume everything went according to whatever plan you have came up with?"

The rogue grinned smugly.

"Ye're right."

"And just how so?"

"Heh, I knew they won't be hooked straight away." - he shrugged - "They ain't no fools. Tis' a grand thing they've got Yoshimo fellow with 'em, though. Should be easier now. I've made sure th' blackguard knows what we want him t' do."

Hawkeye moved to sit awkwardly by his side, drawing arms across her chest, her breath coming out in a cloud of steam. Gaelan nudged her jokingly.

"Come closer. It doesn't count if it's only for warmth, ye know?"

"Jackass."

The girl shuddered once and leaned away.

"Th' first move's done. They'll come t' their minds soon enough."

"Sure. Now what?"

"Nothin'. Let 'em pike 'round the city. We'll watch and wait."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There are several terms taken from the Thieves' Cant I've used in this chapter... In case someone was interested, these are translated in the end notes :))

* * *

 

"Big, fat shit!"

"Millara, stop it right now."

"Shit!"

The door closed with an almighty bang.

Millara dived straight for her bed - messy and unmade, exactly as she has left it - kicking at the blankets with a booted foot. The wooden frame creaked in protest; she huffed, falling on her back and glaring viciously at the beams above.

Four days have passed, and nothing turned into more nothing.

They did not learn anything new about the madman who held them captive in his lair.

The wall of bureaucracy they've met proven to be impermeable. They have spent many precious hours standing in queues - handwaved, ignored, being sent back and forth from one city's official to another, only to land at the point they have begun at. The hope she held in the meeting with the Magistrate of Athkatla, Bylanna Lanulin, turned out just as vain. It didn't take her five minutes to dismiss their plea as lacking the valid point. According to her, Imoen broke the law - the circumstances didn't matter. Neither this nor how insignificant her deed was compared to the mayhem that took place on the Promenade would grant her freedom. Dealing with illegal magic users wasn't within the Magistrate's responsibility, she told them. It was all up to the Cowled Wizards.

Actually, she didn't even know where did the Cowled Wizards hold their prisoners. No one did. They were beyond the law.

Earlier in the morning, a messenger came, bringing a small bag of gems along with the letter from Khalid. As they have learnt from it, he was on his way to Amn, to be expected in another few days.

Also, they've been robbed.

Someone - some smug bastard, flaunting her personally signed bonds and drafts - cleared a bank account that Millara, fostering a deep distrust of institutions, reluctantly opened back in the high days of her career as the celebrated heroine of Baldur's Gate.

To a single, bloody copper.

Somehow, it failed to surprise her. The satisfaction of announcing Jaheira 'I told you so' was a grim and short-lived one. As the other woman pointed out - in an infuriatingly stoic manner - the money she kept sewn into her good cloak's lining were gone as well, along with the said cloak.

"Bollocks!"

The boot's sole left a dirty smudge on a pillowcase. She didn't care.

Furthermore, the druid insisted on Millara keeping as low profile as possible - as if she didn't know how to disguise herself - condemning her to spending most of time in the inn hall's very darkest corners, with Minsc cast in the ungrateful role of a babysitter. In the meanwhile, Jaheira ventured out, busy with renewing some old acquaintances and looking for the contacts. She didn't share too many details, most likely trying to get it touch with the Harpers' local branch.

The half-elf rebelled against it - even though she understood that the curfew has been imposed out of the concern over her safety, their safety - but only got as much as permission to wander around the neighbourhood under the strict condition she would not venture out alone at any times. Their first trip turned out quite disastrous in its own right - Minsc followed her quietly, trailing behind like a lost puppy - right until they stopped by a sloppy-looking marketstall. Then, all the Hells broke loose. Millara couldn't blame the ranger for his outburst, not seeing a particularly fancy armour - which, oddly enough, looked very much like the one she used to own - hanging on the rack, and, as she noticed sourly, sold at the half of the price she'd paid master Fuiruim back in Beregost.

Not that she had a right to complain, sporting fenced boots and several other things herself. Thanks to Yoshimo, the miserable stock of her belongings had already doubled. The new clothes he aquired for her were the right size, and some of these were actually quite fashionable, too - a wine-coloured suede jerkin, an embroidered woolen tunic, a thin chemise with lacy sleeves.

A sigh escaped her lips - the Kozakuran wasn't much of a company, either; after spending both nights out, he was only to be seen at the breakfast time, and collapsed into bed shortly afterwards.

Most worrying of all, they were being tailed.

The half-elf's sixth sense told her what the eyes couldn't when she turned a split second too late, just in time to see the tenement's shadow thicken briefly; a customer taking a little too long to choose the colour of silk yarn disappear in a flutter of cape; ill-dressed children bounce off her hip only to cuss and fall back in amongst the shopping stalls well before she could grab a hold of them.

"Go then, seek yer fortune 'round the city." - the stranger told them - "I's in no hurry. We'll sure meet again, sooner or later."

Millara frowned, thinking - it took her short to no time to make a connection. She had much of a good idea as to who stood behind it. She suspected that Yoshimo, too, knew more than he appeared, but didn't get a chance to talk to him; not with Jaheira, watching them like a hawk. The druid remained pretty adamant, and the argument - one of many - that issued when the Kozakuran halfheartedly mentioned that - since the legal ways of getting as much as an information failed - they might need to try the 'other means', was short and unpleasant.

"Of course, my friends, we would have to tread very carefully, but what choice we have left?"

"By Oakfather, you don't know what are you talking about now! We have enough troubles to risk such an association."

"And I thought you told me that beggars can't be choosers. It's not as if we're in a position to be picky, or is it?"

"Millara, you must be patient. Brash decisions won't help anyone."

"Neither will sitting on the arse. We've waited long enough."

"I'm doing what I can, child. But it all takes time, and in the meanwhile, the less they know about us and especially you, the better."

"I'm under the impression that _they_ seemed to know quite a lot without me giving _them_ any pointers."

"Jaheira, listen to the young one. She's right. Besides, if they have taken the bother of seeking us out so quick, then, well, they must want something. We are on their ground. They don't suffer fools gladly, and believe me, it would be unwise at our side to not-"

"Absolutely no. I forbid you. _Both_ of you."

 _They_.

The Copper Coronet hummed with gossip, rumours spreading like a wildfire over the tankards of ale and bowls of cheap soup, none of them comforting. People whispered about the strange war on the streets, although no one ever as much as seen a skirmish. Just more and more bodies dumped into the river. All too much of a coincidence, and this was precisely why the druid did not wish them to have any involvement with the lords of Athkatla's underworld.

She could see the reason, but still.

There was a loud knock; the door opened and Jaheira appeared - with her hair gathered in a tight bun, dressed in a woolen cloak fastened over what looked like a man's tunic, and a loose-fitting breeches.

"I'm going out." - she announced curtly - "I probably won't be back until after nightfall."

The half-elf grunted in a reply, and didn't move.

"How's your head?"

"Fine."

Since they have escaped Irenicus' clutches, Millara suffered flash headaches. They would appear suddenly when she ate or leaned to fasten a belt's buckle or in the middle of a sentence as she talked, the blinding pain lasting anything from but a few breaths to long minutes, then going away just as unexpectedly. Jaheira agreed that they must have been an aftermath of whatever experiments their captor put her through. There was no effective cure.

She was glad it was only her head that gave her troubles she couldn't hide.

"Rest. Minsc will come to accompany you."

"Uh-huh, how refreshing. Just like he did today in the morning, and yesterday, and the day before."

The druid has obviously chosen to pretend she didn't hear the remark.

"Are you listening? If you needed anything, just ask Bernard."

"I want _her_ back." - Millara said, turning over and staring - "Do you think Bernard could fix it for me if I asked nicely?"

The door closed again - with a thud much softer than she deserved, the sound of the woman's footsteps fading away as she went downstairs. Millara stayed sprawled on the bed; listening, waiting. On the other side of the thin wall, Yoshimo stirred in his sleep, the bed's frame creaking. She could hear Minsc pacing restlessly, and muffled noise coming from the inn's main hall. Golden sunrays filtered in through half-drawn curtain, the ever-changing pattern of light and shadow making up for the room's poor decor, marking a good few hours still left until the sunset.

Only few hours.

"Better hurry up." - Millara told the ceiling, then quietly rose to her feet, crossing the floor and opening the wardrobe.

She considered its contents, taking out a skirt, a simple linen shirt and a tasseled shawl. Folding the clothes neatly, she stuffed them under a pillow and bent to retrieve the medicine bag Jaheira left sitting on the footlocker.

She knew there would be no second chance to act any time soon.

 

* * *

 

 

"Oy! Open up, Brus!"

Another stone bounced off the wooden frame, narrowly missing the boy's head as he peeked from inside, leaning over the windowsill.

"Gods, uncle! - he snorted - "Ye nearly smashed it!"

Gaelan huffed impatiently, squinting, shielding his eyes against the glaring sunshine.

"C'mon right in!" - the boy called - "Ma's out workin', an' I'm bein' left to mind Enid. Can't leave 'till she's back."

"Pfff, an' now he tells me! Then may'aps ye could let me in already, eh? Them door are nailed an' bolted, ye coxcomb!"

Brus disappeared inside at once.

The rogue slouched against the wall. He could hear the bolt fell with a thud, then the door opened and he walked inside.

The kitchen was familiar; bright, ocher-painted walls, the wooden floor slightly uneven, warped, but immaculately polished, just like the row of gleaming copper pots and pans that hung on a driftwood peg over the stove. A chipped blue jug filled with fresh daffodils stood on the table; he noticed unfinished bit of a crotchet, wrapped around the bone hook. Nothing seemed to change since his last visit - that was, when he was still allowed to come and go as he pleased. These days, Lizzie didn't wish him anywhere close her family, and especially not her son.

Brus was a smart eleven year old; cheerful, stubborn like a sunstruck mule, and with a pretty much clear goals set. It wasn't as if he needed any prodding, but the blame for the corruption of the innocent fell on his good-for-nothing rascal of the uncle, anyway.

"Well, hello Enid. Me feet, ain't ye a grand, big girl? " - Gaelan beamed at the two-year-old, seated in her cot - "C'mon, say 'hi', won'ye?"

The girl pursed her lips, staring, not quite sure if she could trust him.

"Does she talk yet?"

"Yawp, when she feels like it. Leave her alone, now she plays coy." - Brus said offhandedly- "Just as well, too, since she was tormentin' me all day before ye came. What is it ye wanted, anyways?"

"Tis' depends if ye wanna earn a few coppers."

"Shiny!" - the boy perked up - "What have ye for me?"

"A messenger's job. I need ye go find Yarin at th' Copper Coronet."

"Ugh! That smelly drunk?"

"Aye, but ye wouldn't want him hear ye callin' him so. He's got a bloomin' heavy hand, th' old toast." - the rogue came to sit on the table - "An' don't be tellin' him it is I who sends ye, say 'twas th' upright man."

Brus nodded eagerly, his greeny-brown eyes shining - undoubtedly at the prospect of getting out.

"Nothin' hard in that. What do ye want wit' him, anyways?" - he enquired - "He's nobbut an antiquated cove."

Gaelan snorted.

"Indeed. When me an' yer-" - he broke off awkwardly; somehow, he doubted his sister would be grateful for being included in any of his childhood stories - "I used to think th' man ancient when I was right 'bout yer age. To ye, that means some twenty summers past, but just look, he's still around an' hale like a horse whilst many younger bit th' dirt since. Yarin will yet outlive me, heh."

His nephew nodded. He didn't seem particularly convinced.

"But enough yappin'." - the rogue continued - "Tell him t' track th' dancers twice, an' dub th' glaze in th' lockram-jawd cove's lumber. Not crack, mind ye. It's dead important."

This time, Brus nearly jumped.

"Aww, man! Ye want to bite a kin?"

Gaelan stretched lazily, hiding an amused grin, and fixed his nephew with a stern look instead.

"Did ye say somethin', or was it just cat's meow I hears?"

"Right. None of me business, I guess." - Brus shrugged, unconcerned - "I better get movin' though, before Ma's back home."

 

* * *

 

 

"Oh please. Take it easy, Minsc." - Millara turned to the ranger, giving him a faint smile - "I'm only going downstairs. You want wine or ale?"

Minsc still didn't look sure, ready to jump and follow her on a moment's notice.

She certainly wasn't having _that_.

"So?"

"Ale sounds good, but-"

"Aww, come on. Unless poor Bernard is really a man-hunter, plotting to lock me up in his kitchen to slave over the week's load of dirty dishes... Joking here!" - she added hastily, seeing the big man's eyes grow wide - "I'll be right back."

The ranger nodded.

The hall was quiet - the usual crowd didn't gather just yet. In the corner, two men dressed respectively in scarlet and blue stood with their fiddles ready, waiting only for the public; a gnome couple in travelling garb occupied the table in the very center; an old woman with a pipe complained about the outrageous price of grain. There was also a small armed group - a smiling man and two young women, one of them a halfling - obviously trying to barter some of their goods, several scrolls, books, pieces of jewellery and loose gemstones displayed on their table.

Some adventuring party, she thought wryly.

At the bar, Bernard busied himself with a soggy cloth, dragging it across the countertop, its surface scratched and worn from the years of use. She spotted an unfinished glass of brandy, sitting within the man's hand's reach. Judging from the merry twinkle in the eye and a slightly reddened nose, it wasn't the first he downed today.

Millara looked around; there was no sign of Lehtinan, and for this she was glad.

According to Jenine - one of the serving girls who seemed to take some special liking to Minsc and his pet hamster, and thus often stopped by their table for a chat - the 'Coronet's' owner run several other businesses around the city, and only seldom stayed in the inn for longer than it was necessary. Millara preffered it that way; the man's pale eyes boring holes into her and Jaheira, and his greasy, overly confidential manner were both, at best, unsettling.

"Hello, Bernard."

"Well, hello there. As always, a delight to see. What's your poison, girl?" - the innkeep grinned - "A mug of warm milk with honey and a jam bake to go with it, mayhaps? Hah, hah!"

Following the bad example set by Jaheira, Bernard quickly started to treat her like a child, making patronising remarks and shooing her away when she asked too many questions. It left her with no other choice than to play along, treating him to the best impression of a bratty half-pint she could manage.

"I'll have ale, thank you." - Millara said with dignity - "Anything new going on?"

"Lemme think... Nay, although according to Aileen, some cheeky bird broke into the pantry just this morning, and mixed sugar with a baking powder in all her jars. Do you happen to know anything about it?"

"Nope." - she shook her head, deadpan - "And here I was wondering why's my porridge fizzy."

"Nothing worse than idle hands, I'm telling you. Want to sweep the floor and help us with the stove? Gods know, it would use a bit of good, old cleaning."

"Gladly. Oh wait, I'm afraid you've barred me from entering the kitchen yesterday."

With a bored expression, Millara leaned over the counter, watching the innkeep fuss over the barrel's leaking tap.

"In a clean glass, if it's not a problem."

"If jests were men, this one would've been a really ancient one." - the innkeep said - "And my glasses are always clean, hear me, you brazen hussie? Always!"

Not spilling a drop, the half-elf picked up the tankard and dodged a blow intended to land on her backside. Bernard sighed, mock-shaking the rag in his hand as she turned away and strolled into the corridor.

She stopped at the dimly lit landing - a cramped space littered with spare barrels, crates of foodstuff covered in a brown paper, broken furnishing collecting dust and cobwebs as it waited for someone to come and fix it. A fiddlers' contest seemed to begin, people cheering loudly.

Millara listened for a second or two, then from her pocket, she produced a small vial and examined its content.

The liquid was dark, bitter-smelling.

_I'm sorry, Minsc._

Blinking away the stinging regret, she mixed half of it into the ale, gave it a quick stir, and continued upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

"The upright man, really?"

The dark-haired boy stood before him - nodding, rocking on his heels, both hands tucked in a too big coat's pockets.

Yarin brushed breadcrumbs off his sleeve and reached to pick a bit of cheese.

It tasted tangy and smelled strong. An aged waterdhavian, perhaps. He chewed on it for a while, only to spit the rest out. Hard and far too dry it was, too. Perhaps lied on this very platter for the major part of the week. Or, just as likely, his teeth were failing him.

He coughed.

The kid looked vaguely familiar - a whipper-snapper barely out of the swaddling clothes, half-flash and half-foolish, but all puffed up like a yearling cockerel on a manure heap.

"Aye. Says ye's to find the knave's that be snackin' with the white-haired wench slum-"

"That wee elf doxy's that just left?" - Yarin indicated the stairs - "Kozakuran fella, I take it."

The boy nodded, looking amusingly self-important.

"Yea, 'tis twice up the dancers, an'-"

"I hear ye, young lad. Dub not crack, and all."

Yarin sighed wistfully.

It's been a long time.

"What's yer name, kiddey? Ye were sayin'."

"Brus."

He nodded to himself, frowning as he looked into the near-empty tankard.

"Brus, eh. Ye're a young Bayle, are ye not?"

"Nay, sir. Thay be me uncle's name. I be a Doolittle."

Yarin pondered on it for a moment.

"Eliza's little boy then... I see."

"That's me Ma, sure as gold!" - Brus smiled - "Ye's knowin' her, then?"

He shook his head, not really listening anymore.

How long it 's been since his last jig, he couldn't remember. The rumours reached his ears, alright, but Yarin had only ever listened out of the habit. He didn't care. The days seemed to stretch to no end, then suddenly whizz past him as on their own accord, with a whole weeks swallowed in a booze-fueled haze, wasted on waiting for something that was not meant to happen.

Once upon a time, Yarin had a dream. He never had the nerve to chase it, falling on the other side of the fence instead. Now, he was but an antiquated cull - an empty gourd, he called himself, the wine's long gone. He was worth only as much as his hands, and these didn't serve him all that well as of late.

The saying had it right.

Better to be snuffed than fade away. He wasn't sure who exactly told him so.

"Uhm, mister?"

Was it that bard at the "Five Flagoons", a bard with blue hair and hellfire burning in his eyes?

"Mister? Ye's all grand, ain't ye?"

Yarin looked down at his hands; surely they shook pretty bad, his fingers red and knobbly, their joints swollen. He would need another drink if he was to do anything.

It was still early.

He seldom bothered to drag himself off bed before the midday struck - there wasn't much for him to do, anyway, and the sight of the same unshaven faces, bloodshot eyes and fake toothless grins that bore an unpleasant similarity to his own were getting more and more tiresome. He scratched his itchy back.

"Listen up, Brus. How 'bout that: I'll finish me pint whilst ye rattle up, and let us know when the feller's off to dunegan?" - he said wearily - "I would use a shoulder-sham, and a rum pair a glimms, too."

The boy grinned, revealing uneven teeth.

"Shiny!"

"One more thing, kiddey." - Yarin stared into his drink - "When we're done, ye go and tell yer 'upright man' that I'm plastered, with a square intention of stayin' plastered right 'till the end of me days, and that if he canna' be arsed to come see me, I don't wanna any of ye darkening me door, too, ever again."

 

* * *

 

 

Millara regarded herself in the mirror, hastily applying the final touch of a kohl.

The disguise was nearly perfect. The simple clothes and a basket filled with groceries - she lifted them from the kitchen - should allow her to pass for a servant who came home on her day off, or maybe a housewife running errands, and the skirt's folds concealed twin daggers, a throwing knife, and not quite appropriate boots.

She was ready.

There were two problems that worried her, though.

Somehow she doubted that there were many half-elves leaving in the city slums. If nothing else, this would surely make her stand out in the crowd. Millara gathered her hair into a messy knot, leaving loose strands to fall over her face, and wrapped a shawl around her head.

Minsc slept sprawled on her bed - his mouth open, breathing softly in a drug-induced slumber.

It worked faster than expected; the ranger was out within mere minutes, and should stay asleep for hours. She worried whatever she got the dose right, having put more than just a few drops of the tincture into his ale - but being a healer, Jaheira made her potions differently, using much smaller quantities of passionflower and poppy than Millara did in her own, and entirely skipping dogwood bark in the favour of chamomile, valerian, skullcap and wild lettuce .

She pulled the shawl a bit lower.

Her reflection stared back from the mirror - her face anxious and thinner than it used to be, her complexion still sallow, the dark liner making her irises look wrong, unnatural; a golden-yellow of a predatory beast's eyes.

Just like her late brother's.

Haunted and hungry, with this vicious gleam sleeping within.

Milara blinked, banishing the thought; there was no time to wash off the make-up.

She needed to focus.

The second big concern was her speech. The half-elf wasn't sure about her ability to imitate the Athkatlan low-class accent, and the city people were a suspicious lot, she learned it all too well. Sometimes, one careless word was enough to put them off.

She couldn't afford that.

If she was to find Gaelan Bayle, she will need to talk and ask many, many questions.

"Tymora be blessed." - she said aloud - "Tain't goin' to be easy, sure as gold."

With a sigh, Millara adjusted a blanket over the sleeping man's shoulders and went to the window.

She examined the wooden frame for a longer moment, then plucked out a hair-thin, steel string that was hidden in a chink where the wood split from the moisture. It snapped between her fingers; she wound both string's ends around the frame's many splinters, feeling the corner of her lips curl briefly in a self-satisfied grin.

The window cracked open without any unpleasant surprises.

Millara looked outside to check for any nosy passers-by, then threw her basket out and - cursing the slippery shingles and the skirt that got caught around her ankle - climbed down the gutterpipe.

 

* * *

 

"No need to fidget, dear friend. We were just passing by, and I thought it would be nice to say hello."

To be honest, Yoshimo wasn't exactly comforted. Not with the glass panel gone missing from its frame, and especially not with the fact it was only possible to unscrew it from inside.

He woke up, alarmed, to a slight breeze touching his skin.

Minsc was out - probably went down to the main hall to accompany Millara - and although the ranger's restless pacing was so far unbearable, for once he regretted his absence.

The window was barred, preventing the dark-haired girl from entering the room, and her hands were empty.

Still and all, he didn't like neither the sight of a loaded crossbow, placed casually across the scout's lap, nor the armed strangers who backed her - an elven man, watching him impassively as he played with a silver hoop, one of about half of a dozen he seemed to have in his pierced ear, and another woman, a blonde with badly scarred face.

He didn't have any doubts as to their identity. Not for a second.

"Aren't you going to invite us in? I jest, of course, seeing as you obviously don't trust our good will." - the girl gave him an affable smile that didn't touch her eyes - "A shame, too. Truly."

"Indeed."

"The boss sends you his best regards; he's very concerned. About your wellbeing, after you have disappeared and then resurfaced quite so suddenly, and in such an interesting company. Some other matters, too."

"Do remember to give him my most sincerere thanks, then."

"I guess I could do it." - she cocked her head - "It would appear rude, though, to not go and thank him in person, don't you think?"

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Yoshimo nodded.

"When the time is right, perhaps."

"Certainly, although I shall point that loitering around won't help your case. How does it go, this saying? Pay your respects to the neighbouring dragon, before the dragon decides to visit you?"

She wasn't smiling now.

"So, friend, how is the business?"

"Not much of a progress. I did not... I need more time to reason with them. Talking to Minsc makes about as much sense as talking to a chair, and-"

"Talk to the girl then, she's most likely to heed your advice."

"Bah, you think I didn't try? They are suspicious lot, and their party is more like a squabbling family than just allies. I doubt they trust me. Jaheira won't even let me near her ward unattended." - the Kozakuran rogue said defensively - "I'm sure he's aware of that."

"Oh, he is. It is the only reason why you're still breathing with both of your lungs intact, Yoshimo."

The scout looked at him with cool blue eyes, her slim fingers stroking the crossbow's shaft in what wasn't even a barely concealed threat anymore.

"You are expected to show up within the next three days, and being in your fancy-ass boots, I wouldn't want to fuck it up. Best if you bring the girl along. I don't care how are you going to manage it, but the word is that Renal would absolutely love to meet her in person."

Yoshimo felt his jaw clench. He sat up abruptly.

"What are you playing at now?" - he hissed - "This wasn't mentioned earlier!"

The scout shrugged.

"Well, things are changing as we speak. You're hardly in the position to make demands. Sad as it is, had you not pissed into a jug, you wouldn't have to drink it."

"I follow the path of duty. My deeds are mine only." - Yoshimo said - "Saying which, I would rather not have my companion endangered by my own-"

"Folly?" - she suggested in a pleasant tone - "Oh please, don't be looking at me like that. Bloodscalp really means her no harm. Yet. But then, if you tarry too long, we might be forced to show you how to solve problems."

The elven man grinned, raising his crossbow in a mock shot.

"Starting with the druid bitch."

The Kozakuran briefly lowered his eyelids.

"So?"

"Let her be." - he said - "I'll talk to the girl this eve."

"Ha. I didn't think you could afford for your honour to take a blow like this, or risk your remaining friends learning all about your dirty little secrets, hmm?"

He didn't reply.

The girl barked a short ugly laugh, the sound of it brittle, tinny.

"We shall bid you farewell, but before, I believe this trinket to be something you will deeply appreciate."

She shifted into a crouch, taking a small, wrapped parcel from the elf's hands and pushing it toward the window. It clattered against the bars.

"There, mate. Open it, would you?"

Yoshimo tore off the embossed mullberry paper. He had a pretty good idea as to what the gift was; Bloodscalp was known for his penchant for the occassional drama, and with the strangers watching him expectantly, he might have as well be done with it.

He wasn't mistaken.

The box itself was a plain, dark wood, but the bauble it held inside looked like a rare piece of the art; its frame made of carved lapis lazuli twined with a fine silver wirework, the Luskan crystalline glass perfect, spotless.

He nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

He set the tiny hourglass on his palm, watching the sand flow, glittering.

Fast.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here's the aforementioned Thieves' Cant glossary:
> 
> upright man - a top ranking rogue; here a guildmaster  
> half-flash and half-foolish - a sarcastic term for one familiar with a little bit of thieves' flashspeak but pretending to possess a knowledge they don't really have  
> cove - a man; also a rogue  
> knave - skilled fellow rogue  
> snack with - be friends with  
> lumber, slum - bedroom  
> track the dancers - climb the stairs  
> lockram-jawd - thin, lean, of sharp features  
> bite a kin - to rob or outwitt the other rogue  
> dunegan - privy  
> cull - a foolish man, a mug, an easy mark  
> rum, rumly - good, of fine quality  
> dub the glaze - take the glass panel out of the frame without breaking it  
> glimms - eyes  
> shoulder-sham - a partner in crime  
> antiquated - old, retired  
> old toast - hale, robust old man  
> doxy - a woman, esp. young or female rogue


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

 

"Ye're wasting time."

Millara glared at the man. She couldn't disagree.

In her search for the mysterious stranger, she decided to visit a marketplace. Merchants were always well informed and more often than not, prone to gossip. When one was buying, paying customer, that is.

Unfortunately, all she'd managed so far was to get rid of all the small coins she thought their group won't miss. With these, she acquired a new purse, a set of glass vials in various sizes and colours - clear, cobalt blue, amber, each colour having different qualities and designed for storing different mixtures - and a small quantity of dried herbs.

The prices of the latter were a daylight robbery.

Her attempts at getting a bargain were largely ignored by the merchant she has dealt with.

Actually, he simply dumped her stuff on the table before her and turned back right when she opened her mouth to ask him something - obviously very busy, shifting eagerly from feet to feet and gushing over some of what she presumed were his more respectable 'paying customers'.

This instantly prompted emergence of Millara's less noble side - indignant and seeing that the merchant took no further notice of her, she helped herself to the displayed wares in the act of petty vengeance.

_Take that_ , she thought spitefully as she lifted some of the more exotic, pricey goods - a daintily decorated box filled with saffron strands, a vial of jasmine oil, a black pearl pendant, and a loose stone that - as Millara examined it later, in the relative safety of a nearby backstreet - turned out to be a real treasure.

A rogue stone, she decided. It shimmered in the light, shifting from being clear like a waterdrop into a carnival of colours, now parroty blue-green, now glowing sunset orange; now dappled silvery-grey like fresh snow on mountain granite, now ghostly purple of the rainbow's end.

Satisfied, she slipped it into her purse. Adrenaline hummed pleasantly in her blood. She thought she has nearly forgotten the thrills of pocket raiding.

"So, missy? What says ye?"

Now, she considered the street peddler - merchant being too big word for the lanky owner of the overloaded, untidy mobile stall - standing with his arms crossed. He was shifty somewhat, even in the way he'd approached her - yet happy to barter her stolen spices and perfume for a bag of candied nuts that Minsc and Boo were partial to, a pair of kid-skin gloves she thought Jaheira might like, and a particular silver-plated hair pin. Sparkling stones decorating it weren't real gems, but the half-elf quickly deduced that the pin's most valuable property escaped the peddler's attention, otherwise he'd surely charge her twice its value.

She used to own similar a pin - before.

Unfortunately, it looked like it was about it. He either didn't appear particularly impressed with her haggling skills.

"It's seven silvers and we have a deal, or ye can go push yer luck elsewhere."

"Are yeh mad?" - she hissed - "It's a bloomin', genuine pearl!"

"Aye, as ye say it, and a nice one at that. It ain't worth a copper, though, lying in yer pocket, or is it?" - he gave her a smug smile - "Why won't ye barter it for something? Try the hat 'ere, it'll suit ye grandly."

"I look bad in pink, and I need ready coin."

"We all does, innit?"

The man snorted, staring at her insolently with pale greeny eyes, one hand propped up behind his head.

Millara felt her teeth grind in barely contained annoyance. Instead, she replied with a sweetest smile she could manage.

"True enough. How's that fer a deal, then: I'll sell it fer a fiver and yeh will answer a question or two? Yeh see, I'm looking fer someone."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Ah? And this someone be..?"

"I's looking fer a man." - the half-elf chosen to ignore the sleazy grin that instantly spread across his face - "Going under the name Gaelan Bayle, or the like."

She couldn't quite believe her luck when he nodded somberly, stepping in the marquee's shadow and indicating for her to come closer. She leaned toward him; hot, rum-laced breath tickled her face.

As it turned out, she was right.

"Lookit now, I dunno yer fellow." - the man said, running a rough fingertip along her jawline - "But what about that, I'll give ye five for the pearl there, and another fiver for a half an hour yer time?"

Millara recoiled as if bitten by a horsefly.

"What? Not on yer nelly!" - she squeaked - "The cheek! Yeh filthy git, I sure hopes yeh die roaring! Yeh-"

He spat at the ground, shrugging.

"Long-eared slut."

Millara stormed off, fuming, people staring after her. Behind the stall, she stumbled onto a flower seller - a woman in a flat cap over tied mouse-brown hair, and a frayed coat - almost knocking the basket out of her hands.

"I'm sorry!"

"Ah! Th' curse, are ye blind? Ye nearly wasted the lot o' them, ye did!"

"Yea, but I apologised, too!"

The woman left, muttering under her breath.

Millara made a circle around the district, and then another, tracing the route they've taken during their first night in the city, getting frantic with every passing minute.

She collapsed over there, she recalled, near the dingy passageway smelling of piss and mold. This was where they stood, and this alley was a shortcut leading straight to the Copper Coronet.

What was that Minsc told her the man has said? That he lived nearby, but a few streets away.

Millara walked down through another block, looking around in frustration, taking in the rows of ramshackle huts, squeezed tight, built one atop another; the narrow stairs and walking planks rickety, rotten, gutters below overflowing.

A shanty-town.

She tried to hide her chagrin, aware of the inhabitants watching her more or less openly, their glances curious, wary. It could have been just about everywhere. Her heart fluttered nervously, all the unanswered questions she tried to supress filling her mind anew.

What if Jaheira was right and it was only a confidence trick, intended to part them with the coin they didn't even have? Could it be the stranger simply changed his mind? He knew where they were staying, he'd even shown them to the inn himself. If he indeed expected to gain something in exchange for whatever knowledge he possessed, he wouldn't have troubles with contacting them.

Yet, he never did.

She frowned at the memory - truth to be told, she wasn't even sure how he has looked like. She had only remembered flashes - that he had held her, the rumble of his chest as he spoke, mouth curved in a cocky smile, and a faint, not unpleasant scent of smoke, yarrow and soap that clung to the man's skin. These were rather intimate details, she thought awkwardly - but she did not have much else. Nothing of merit. Half-drunk and weak as she was, fighting just to stay conscious, blinded by the inn's bright lights, she came around for good about the time the man took off - too fast - disappearing in the night.

She was hunting a shadow.

Leaving the shanties behind, Millara walked slowly toward the busier street, jostled by the passers-by rushing and milling all around her, trying to avoid stepping in horse droppings and the worst of the muddy pools, scanning the surroundings with a sinking feeling of a failure.

She plopped on a low wall overlooking the bay, near the stairs that led down to the docks, letting out a discouraged sigh. The vast expanse of the Sea of Swords shimmered, the sun a burning globe painting the water bright gold and scarlet, scattered boats rocking here and there.

Only a little over an hour was left until the nightfall.

A woman came to rest nearby, setting a wicker basket on the ground. Millara watched her hike up skirts and adjust thick woolen socks that rolled down at her ankles, recognizing the flower seller she'd stumbled upon earlier on.

"Tis' a fair eve, innit?"

The half-elf nodded, huddling and drawing knees close to her chest.

There was a cold breeze coming from the sea, bringing in the salty smell of kelp and damp wood. Below, the dock workers laughed and cursed, singing as they unloaded the evening catch. Birds fought over scraps, filling the air with a flutter of white and grey wings, their screams shrill and outraged.

The woman said something; Millara shook her head, smiling apologetically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A buncha violets to cheer ye?" - she smiled - "It's me last."

"How much?"

"Nary a coin. Ye take it, then I'm good an' free to go home."

She accepted a small posy, burying nose into the flowers, their leaves limp and wilting.

"Thank you."

"Ye're welcome, pet. Gods know, I must've sold ten thousand bunches today. Them boots left grooves all over the district, I tells ye."

"Isn't the north side a better business?"

"Ah, stop it!" - the flower seller snorted - "If only! Them lot wouldn't spare a steam off their piss if their own mother was on fire!"

She nodded vigorously, remembering how the officials treated them not too long ago.

"I believe I know something about it."

"Aye, they would make ye think ye're a bad smell!"

The half-elf squinted in the bright light. It was actually nice, to just sit, making a small talk. There wasn't many people she could converse safely within the Copper Coronet, and anyway, Minsc's presence seemed to deter even the bravest of guests. She recalled how - back in Candlekeep - she used to gawk at patrons at the bar, soldiers at their posts, every peasant and merchant coming to trade, how fascinated she was by visitors in outlandish robes who travelled the great lenghts to see the treasures of the world's most famous library, their skin dark like peat or paler than she ever thought possible, olive, and many shades of copper. All the while being too shy to offer more than a barely audible greeting, it was only after Imoen came to the citadel that Millara learned that most people won't bite if spoken to. Ulraunt did not seem to appreciate that.

Now, this little snippet of a conversation made her feel ordinary again, even if nothing else. So little there was left in her life she could call normal.

"So, what brings ye to Athkatla, work?" - the woman regarded her curiously, taking the cap off - "I saw ye potterin' around the place with that at-wits-end look on yer face. A northerner, ain't ye?"

"Yeah."

Millara sighed, dropping the fake accent entirely; she must have been doing a poor show, indeed.

"Ye need to be careful." - the flower seller said, looking serious - "Them streets can be very rough."

"I know that."

"Hope ye're havin' a place to stay? It's dangerous after the night sets, more so for a comely young lass. People gone missing. There're slavers on the prowl, they say."

"No, it's all right, I have a room. I was just looking for someone, is all." - she rested head on her knees, absentmindedly chewing on a loose strand of her hair -"I... I've met a man not too long ago, and I hoped... He said he will help me out, but now, he just disappeared right like a stone in a well."

"I don't expect ye knows him well, eh?"

"No. I've only ever saw him that once."

"Ilmater be merciful, ye poor thing. Them louts, always on a lookout to bring a girl down the wrong path." - the woman huffed in disgust - "Promise ye moon an' the stars, then leave ye to fend for yerself. Go an' see aul missus Cragmoon over at the bridges. She can be gettin' rid of it for ye, well before anyone gets wiser."

The half-elf blinked, confused.

"Excuse me..?"

The woman gave her a quick all-over glance.

"Ye were sayin' ye's got yerself in troubles, did ye not? Troubles." - she repeated, pointing vaguely at her midsection - "With yer man."

Millara stared, with her eyes wide and face growing hot. The woman seemed to take her stunned silence for a yes, so she just nodded, making no effort to correct her, at once hopeful and working hard to not let the hope rise too high. She'd only asked so many times today, to no avail. But this woman seemed friendly enough, and there was no harm in trying anyway. Just another lie.

Swallowing the lump that seemed to form in the back of her throat, she rattled the same line like a well-learned lesson.

"Please, do you think you could help me? If I could find him, before... Before I'll do anything, then maybe..."

The flower seller made a doubtful little snort, but nodded.

"Aye. I knows a lot of folk from 'round here, though if ye ask me, I'll say ye's off to look for a needle in a haystack. He might be well gone from the city, an' besides even if he's still 'ere-"

"No, he... He said he lived here on the riverside, I think." - the half-elf hesitated - "The name he'd given me was Gaelan Bayle, and if you-"

Millara didn't expect the woman to grab her by wrist, her fingers squeezing so hard it was painful. She suppressed the strong, instinctive urge to kick, to break free of her hold, letting her other hand hang limp where it was but a second earlier - clenched around the hidden blade's handle. Slowly, she exhaled, her heart giving an anxious lurch as she the woman collected herself. The look on her face was peculiar, flustered and somewhat embarrassed, and her gaze could have curdled the milk. It wasn't directed at her, though.

"Listen to me, pet." - she said, her blue eyes intent - "Are ye sure now ye got it right? That feller's name?"

The half-elf nodded.

"Yes. Do you-"

"Bah! Does I knows him?" - the woman hissed, raising and roughly pulling Millara to her feet - "Like a bad copper I do, the lazy gobshite! He's me own bleedin' brother!"

Millara bit at her lip, mouthing a silent but fervent prayer to Tymora.

It seemed that against all odds, she had succeed finding the man, the half-elf thought as she followed the woman to her home, down in the docks.

Now, all that Millara was left with was hope he would be still willing to help - and that he had a sense of humour.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm really not sure, Jaheira. More tea?"

Ribald the Barterman - once upon a time known as Ribald the Adventurer - pointed at the gracefully curved kettle.

A very fine, very expensive eastern porcelain, as Jaheira noticed. The man had always liked his bit of luxury.

Now that he had settled down, it became even more pronounced - his clothes were a little extravagant, and Ribald became - if not quite fat, for there was no such thing as fat elvenkin - kind of fleshy. His eyes remained keen, though, missing nothing; a proof that behind the dandy's decorum, his mind was as sharp as ever.

He rocognised her as soon as she set a toe in his shop.

They occupied Ribald's tastefully arranged office at the "Adventurer's Mart's" back - a snug place with thick, soft carpets and comfortable furnishing, full of antiques, books, maps and ornate weaponry that held the reminder of their owner's turbulent past.

"In any other situation, I would call it unwise, to shrug off a hand reaching to help you."

The druid took a slow sip from her cup, the flavour of bergamot lingering on her tongue.

"The truth is, if anyone knows or can learn of your friend's whereabouts, or that crazy mage for that matter, it's them." - Ribald continued - "Alas, if you decided to get... Involved right now, you're going to earn a dubious ally and a sure enemy."

Jaheira sighed.

"Tell me something I don't know already. All these rumours... I don't understand, who could possibly challenge the Shadow Thieves on their own ground?"

"It worries me, too. Not that I would be particularly sorry to see them go, but they owned Athkatla for the whole decades. I would suspect some assassin upstarts, but this other guild, they are too..." - the merchant bit on his lip, frowning - "I wouldn't call them chaotic. There is some method in what they do, but since the dawn of the time, the thieves has robbed, hoaxed, sabotaged, swindled and what have you for just one thing. And there's no profit in what they do here. It simply makes no sense."

"We got to live in the interesting times."

"Bah. I only moved on to get some well deserved peace, and instead, got caught between the rock and a hard place." - Ribald said with a huff - "I can only hope it will all end soon enough. Interesting times might be great for the adventurers, but are sure bad for business, I'm telling you."

"What with the increased weapon sale, then? I can't recall you being so grumpy."

"Look who's talking! You were hardly the most exuberant lass I knew. Too serious and-"

"Enough jests. Focus." - Jaheira said, deadpan.

"Heh, now that's a good one. It sure does sound more like you."

The man cracked a grin, picking a strawberry from a fruit plate, and gesturing for Jaheira to help herself. She settled for a pear, its pale yellow skin waxy under her fingertips, then glanced towards the gilded timepiece that stood at the desk.

"Easy, it's still early."

"Yes, although given that I came to seek advice, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

"You're not quite there yet, my dear."

She nodded with a small smile.

"I'm glad to hear that. So tell me, what about this Cornelius fellow you have mentioned before?"

"He's as much a shifty, greasy rat as they come." - Ribald snorted - "No harm in trying, mind you. I could imagine he would be more than willing to help, if presented with the right means of persuasion."

"But of course. And how much the 'means' stand for these days?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly. I pay him two whole grands each month, just to keep the cowled bastards off my tail. In your case, I'd expect it will be much more."

Jaheira stared at the end of her braid.

"I don't think we can afford it right now. It's a lot of money."

Ribald's expression turned a little wry.

"Talking about which, if you wanted to-"

"I don't mix my friendships with business, for a first thing, and I didn't come to ask you for a credit." - Jaheira said, keeping her voice cool - "If that's what you were going to say."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally, the druid rose from the chair, gathering her cloak, and adjusting a blade strapped to her hip.

A hand came down to gently land on her shoulder.

"It's good to see you again, my friend." - the man sighed - "A pity the circumstances are as they are."

"True."

"I'll have Tariei to walk you back to the inn."

"No need for that, it's not far. But thank you."

"Jaheira, wait."

She frowned as Ribald walked to the wall, taking the sheathed scimitar off its rack, then turned back to her, grinning.

"I hereby present you Ahnvathil, the Night's Bane." - the man announced grandly - "The blade is elven, and for my best knowledge, it is made of silversteel."

Jaheira's eyebrows shot up. When she didn't make a move, too startled to say anything, the merchant rolled his eyes, nonchalantly dumping it into her arms.

"See, this baby was idle far too long. I'll wager she'd just love to have a bite of some ogre's arse again. Not likely to happen in my company, I'm afraid."

"Ribald, I can't accept such a gift."

"Ah, and rightly so." - he winked - "Because I expect you to pay it off when you are solid on your feet again, and the things calm down a little. How's that?"

Jaheira leaned to clasp hands with the man.

"You are irreformable. A pearl to you, Ribald."

"Aye, my dear. And to you."

 

* * *

 

 

The curse that escaped Yoshimo's lips was nasty, and indeed, a very elaborate one.

He didn't find Millara neither in the inn's main hall nor the kitchens. She was gone.

_Should have stood my ground and speak with the girl before_ , he thought chagrined.

However hard it seemed.

She was seldom alone, guarded either by the Rashemi ranger or Jaheira. The druid especially gave him troubles. While the other two seemed to accept him into their small group, Jaheira watched her young companion like a hawk, sending Yoshimo distrustfull, icy daggers of a stare every time he came near. Worse still, with what meagre funds they had, they couldn't afford renting a separate quarters for everyone and the two women shared a room, making it impossible to talk to Millara in secrecy during the night.

The Kozakuran's expression turned grim as he remembered Bayle's fingers, curling into familiar shapes of the thieves' secret flashspeak, and the recent visit. The bauble that Renal Bloodcalp send him felt awkward and heavy, stuffed in his belt pouch.

It seemed that Yoshimo - who liked to think of himself as farsighted and pragmatic - was now running both out of time and options.

Just as the scout girl remarked, the mess he was stuck deep in was of his own making. Worse still, the bad standing with the Shadow Thieves really wasn't his biggest problem. To say he didn't like it was an understatement.

He should have never come to the blasted city.

Now, their quarter was empty, save for Minsc snoring softly on one of the twin beds, gooosebumps raising on his bare arm.

There was a faint breeze coming from somewhere in the room. Frowning, the Kozakuran examined the window.

His eyes went suddenly wide.

It creaked when he tapped the peeling wooden frame, only appearing to be locked, the trap he personally fixed on it deftly disarmed.

Yoshimo sat heavily on the bed. Minsc didn't as much as stir. Listening to his easy, peaceful breaths, the Kozakuran examined the near empty tankard left at the nightstand, his brows furrowing even more as he smelled it.

There was a very faint scent underlying the one of malted barley and yeast that made his frown deepen. A mere dabbler wouldn't be able to neither detect nor recognise it, but Yoshimo was proud to be a fast learner and knew a lot. No one could be sure when the certain skill would come in handy. He held the glass to the light, looking for a sediment.

There was none. Some kind of tincture, then.

_Strange, that._

He sighed and bent over the large man's sleeping form, gently pulling one of his eyelids up.

_Mask be praised, but of course._

The ranger's pupils, constricted to the size of a tiny black dots only confirmed his suspicions.

Minsc has been drugged. On purpose and by a close friend, no doubt was left here, but why?

He deliberated briefly, then stood up and opened a bag left on the footlocker.

It must have belonged to the druid, Yoshimo decided, examining the contents. There was a letter folded and slipped inside. Although not exactly the most honourable thing to do, needing every scrap of information, he opened and read it. It said that Jaheira's husband has already left Neverwinter - where he ventured in search of his wife and friends after they disappeared - and was on his way to Athkatla, to be expected within few days.

Not much.

Underneath, there was a laquered box of bruise balm, smelling strongly of mint and arnica; several bottles filled with various herbal tinctures and salves in jars; tisanes and small sachets of loose dried herbs, leaves, roots and flowers, each clearly labelled in a surprisingly elegant handwriting. A typical healer's apothecary. Again, nothing really interesting.

The few dark vials he found searching the other woman's things were quite a different story.

Hidden in a leather pouch adorned with a rabbit's foot charm and squeezed under empty scroll tubes, on the chest's very bottom, only three of those were named, the notes written by a different hand and with letters that seemed scraggly in comparison. These were not medicinal plants.

Monkshood. Hemlock.

Yoshimo examined them thoughtfully as he leaned to sit, cross-legged on the floor.

He shook his head.

Now, that was something big. He wasn't sure how he should feel about it, but it seemed he wasn't the only one among his new companions who was hiding some not-so-sweet secrets. He carefully placed the last marked vial back in its bag, and closed the coffer.

White baneberry.

_What are you, young one?_

 

* * *

 

 

"I tells ye, uncle, 'twas all shiny! Mister Yarin might be all antiquated but sure a grand knave, he is! Yer man won't ever guess how the glass in his room has gone missin', an-"

"Brus!"

A rushed shuffle of feet on the porch and a woman's voice came most unexpected, and in a very bad moment indeed.

"Uh-oh, seems ye's all screwed up." - Brus whistled, swinging his legs in what Gaelan thought an overly gleeful anticipation of the scene about to issue - "I's right 'ere, Ma!"

The rogue glanced around, hastily considering the nearest escape route.

He settled for removing his legs from the table just as Lizzie power-walked into the kitchen, stopping dead in her tracks the very second she'd spotted him. Gaelan gave her a sheepish smile - he didn't have to pretend, not with Lizzie's eyes screaming a bloody murder. Neither there was a chance she would be fooled by his even most convincing display of innocence.

Afterall, they grew up together under the same wings.

"Well!" - she spat - "Just look what the cat dragged in!"

"Hello, sis. It's sure been too long, eh? Happy t' see me, are ye?"

He felt his face go blank with surprise just as another woman, small and thin - a girl, and a very particular girl at that - quietly slipped inside. Lizzie propped one hand against her hip; a picture of forced calm right before all the Hells break loose. She didn't answer, motioning to her son instead.

"Brus, get out. Now."

The boy rose to his feet without a word, and left, not bothering as much as to retrieve his cap.

Still a little dumbstruck, Gaelan watched his sister place the other hand on the top of the girl's shoulder - at which, he noticed, the Bhaalspawn seemed to crumple.

"Anythin' ye wants to tell me?" - Lizzie demanded - "Ye's knowin' this girl? Not a word a lie, now."

He thought of it for a second or two, covering confusion with yet another grin.

"Aye, 'tis be miss puke-on-me-boots." - the rogue turned to the girl - "What a crack. So ye found me, eh? I was sure ye will, eventually."

The half-elf's head snapped up. Her face was very red, her expression - remarkably apologetic above all else. The word she kept mouthing - the one that looked oddly like 'sorry' - made him wonder.

Even more so when a wicker basket came flying, whooshing through the kitchen's length and missing him by a mere inches.

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

 

 

His steps were a light, sure stride of someone who knew his surroundings inside out.

They have left the Docks behind and now, Gaelan Bayle led her through the riverside slums. The smell of rotting cabbage, smoke and stagnant water was heavy in the air, fire in burning pits and sparsely placed lanterns being the only source of dim light after the last of sunrays died.

Much to Millara's chagrin, the man never turned to see whatever she was keeping up, likely still furious with the whole awkward situation - 'awkward' being admittedly a big understatement - she had involuntarily put him in.

She was so mortified that she really didn't think to complain when in the middle of his sister's rant, Bayle grabbed her elbow, and - unceremoniously and none too gently - shoved her out of the door and onto the street. He ordered her to stay close, and barely spoke to her since. Determined to finally get some answers, Millara obeyed, the other woman's - Eliza's - curses, foul enough to make a sailor blush, still loud in her ears.

"Don't stare. Some people take umbrage faster than ye'd expect."

Millara averted her eyes from the two men, standing half-hidden behind a ruined fence. Despite her guide's warning, they seemed sufficiently busy to take notice of random bystanders and anyway, she'd already seen enough; it was from their quivering hands, gaunt faces and glazed eyes of black lotus addicts she knew what they were at.

They have passed by an unusually crowded wagon next - obviously a main source of the offensive cabbage-smell that permeated area - the people, adults and children alike milling around, laughing and chattering noisily. A soup-kitchen, she recognised, beggar's banquet where you could eat a hot supper for a half-copper, sometimes just as little as an onion or a handful of barley to be added to cooking pot. Millara never brought herself to try the vague substance - too thick for a soup, not thick enough to be called stew - such institutions served, not even when teasingly dared to. According to some, despite its unappetizing looks, the food itself tasted quite well - at least, as long as one didn't ponder too long at its greasy film or the origin of tiny, tiny bones found sometimes on the bowl's bottom.

She could hear Bayle whistle under his breath - a popular folk melody, the one about the fox-of-nine-tails and a wizard's merry daughter.

It wasn't particularly in tune.

He didn't seem to care, either.

A woman with heavily painted face and a shock of long, loose hair left her post by the street light, approaching them with her lips stretched in a sultry smile.

"Well, if 'tis not my bonny old friend." - she purred - "Gelain, isn't it? Haven't seen you in ages. Fancy a tumble?"

Millara paused awkwardly, looking at her guide.

Bayle grimaced, now quite visibly irritated - and perhaps a little embarassed, too, she thought as he gave her flash of a wry half-smile.

"Selyn. How damn subtle."

The woman giggled.

"Oh my. Would you rather have me askin' if you'd like to make me a duchess, or-"

"I'd rather ye begone. I'm in company."

"Are you?"

The prostitute whirled around, only then taking notice of Millara hovering uncomfortably a few steps away. She gave the half-elf a quick all-over glance, her kohled eyes narrowing just slightly.

Underneath all her artfully done make up, she looked very young.

About my age, the half-elf thought. Younger perhaps.

"Oh, I see now." - the courtesan drawled - "Though I canna say that I knows this one, and I know of all the rent girls around 'ere. You're new to the trade, love?"

"She ain't in the trade, an' ye'll mind yer tongue, wench." - Bayle hissed, waving at Millara to be quiet - "Better still, why won't ye already go try yer luck with findin' some other cull to stick ye?"

She snorted.

"'Because I take half a silver now. Fewer men willing to go for it, and then, I'd rather keep to them I knows. Lya's been askin' me the other day if I was up for doin' Mae'Var with her, him likin' two girls at once, payin' three silvers a head. If he's well pleased, that is, otherwise he gets plenty nasty. I said nay." - she shuddered - "Gives me creeps, that fellow."

"Uh, right. Canna see no reason t' care whatsoever."

"But of course you can't. Anyhow, was it Mae'Var or else, someone skinned Lya like a rabbit." - Selyn finished dryly - "They found 'er today at the bridges. The business is gettin' dangerous, and if I'm to risk my arse in other way than catchin' crabs, there ain't no bloody way I'll be doin' it for half free."

The man's eyes seemed to widen.

"Wait now, Lya's dead?"

"Dead as a doornail. Alas, as you said, 'tis not that anyone cares what 'appens to a whore."

She turned to Millara once again.

"No offence meant, miss. It's only that I'm not used to see too many noble ladies wanderin' about in these parts, and more so after dark." - she offered, then leaned to the still scowling man, her voice dropping down to a whisper - "And you, I might see you later. Ol' price, aye? When you get bored with that company of yours."

The prostitute walked away without much haste, leaving Millara wondering if she ought to react to the insinuation, let it drop, or grimace herself, just to let them know that she heard every single word besides what was meant for her ears.

Bayle cleared his throat, shifting on his feet and looking every bit repentant.

"Gods, I'm sorry 'bout that. I truly am."

The half-elf shrugged, not sure what to say. Somehow, she doubted his coy smile was entirely sincere - thus far he seemed to summon this particular expression with kind of a practiced ease, like a willful child caught in the act for yet another time. He must have thought she was sulking - they continued in silence.

Next street was better lit and already familiar - she recognised it as the one that led to the "Copper Coronet". Just as she begun to wonder whatever he changed his mind and was simply going to return her to the inn, the man turned left. Millara hurried after him through a low, dingy archway, mud splashing under her feet, a cat meowing in protest as she nearly stomped on it.

Just then, he came to an abrupt halt. Millara found herself looking into his face - a welcome change after looking at his back for most of their journey, she thought sourly.

"Well. We're 'ere, miss."

Cautious anew, she regarded the building - faded paint flaky peeling off its walls, a crooked gutter pipe, a shingle missing over the porch. Faint light filtered through the drawn curtains.

So. Not a shanty-town, afterall.

A sigh escaped her lips; she must have passed it by at least twice today, never knowing better. It was but an ordinary, two-storey townhouse, set in a row of similar houses - given its neat front yard and intact windows in nearly all of the surrounding buildings, it was probably the most respectable part of the district.

Millara looked up.

Gaelan Bayle wasn't very tall, but still towered over her - admittedly an easy task, given her own height. His eyes were keen on hers in near-darkness, glinting in what now looked like a curiously striped mask of light and shadow, and he stood so close that she could feel the heat his body radiated after the brisk walk.

Far too close, invading her personal space. He didn't seem to notice.

Of course, she has long came to notice that the further south their group has travelled, the more the customs regarding privacy of the others changed. Southrons spoke loudly, gestured lively, and were exuberant to the point that back where she was raised, it would have been considered unseemly, even indecent.

"Uh, miss?"

He reached out to touch her arm. All in all, though not in the least deliberate, it made her cringe anyway.

"Heh. Ye're a strange little thing." - he said, immediately stepping back - "So ye've taken all th' bother of seekin' me out, but now ye's scared an' regret, is that th' matter?"

It was surprisingly frank question, and one Millara didn't expect. She straightened and raised her chin up.

"No." - she lied - "Or is there anything I should be afraid of on your side?"

The man shrugged.

"I promised ye no harm, didn't I? Guess ye might as well come in, then."

"So did a whole bunch of others. They tried to stick a knife in my back though, as soon as they thought I wasn't looking."

"Shit happens all th' time. So?"

"Some of them I was close with. And you, I know nothing of you but your name."

Bayle cocked his head, giving her a long, strange look.

"Oh? What 'bout how ye know now where me family lives, which to be sure I never intended for ye to know?" - he said softly - "Canna say I like it all that much. Not t' mention how ye blamed me into gettin' ye all banged up, givin' Lizzie one more reason to hate me an'-"

It was his calm manner that made Millara's already strained nerves finally get better of her. Raising anger flushed her cheeks; her teeth ground loudly.

"That's a load of bollocks!" - she bristled indignantly, her voice pitching half the octave up - "You know bloody well it wasn't intentional! Have you bothered to leave us any helpful hints as to your whereabouts, then maybe-"

"Fine, fine." - the man raised his hands in a placating gesture - "Don't get your panties all knotted up, missy. No hard feelings on me side."

It served nothing but to fluster her even more.

She felt sudden wave of red-hot fury roaring inside her, pounding in her temples, licking at her throat, burning someplace behind her eyes.

"Why, mister Bayle." - she stomped forward with her fists raised - "Actually, I feel much obliged to mention that, first of all, I've never told your sister you left me with child!"

The man huffed and crossed his arms, now clearly annoyed himself. The way he looked at her was downright insulting.

"Ahh, that so? She seemed t' think otherwise."

"Of course I didn't!" - she screeched - "In fact, it was her own assumption. And given the way she spoke of you, your reputation wasn't exactly impeccable well before I trampled it!"

He opened his mouth as if to say something - given the scowl on his face, likely not quite civil - then sighed unexpectedly, his lips curving in a rueful smile.

"She thinks me a piece of slut, innit? Forgive me, m'lady, I seem t' be forgettin' me manners far too often as of late."

Millara stilled.

"Ah."

It was all - anger still smouldering in the pit of her stomach - she was able to articulate when realisation hit her. She swallowed hard, forcibly unclenching her fists and taking a slow, steadying breath. Her hands shook.

Had the man not backed away from the argument the precise moment he did, she would have ended up going for his eyes.

The though was deeply disturbing.

Yes, she was aware it would have been entirely disproportionate reaction over something as ridiculous. She still tried to fool herself with wane hope that her recent temper issues were only due to the sorry state of her frayed nerves and not something deeper and much more sinister, but the evidence was firmly set against her, wasn't it? She was turning into a violent maniac, at very best. A dumb, pointless quarrel left her seething and craving for blood. Now that her anger was dissipating, she felt only weak.

She blinked several times, banishing the urge to cry. Not here. Not in the front of this stranger, she thought fiercely. There was too many questions that she desperately needed answered, and the sooner, the better.

Meanwhile, Bayle didn't seem to be neither aware of the inner conflict she was going through - or how close he was to having his face ripped into shreds - nor dettered by her scant reaction. He bowed instead, and reached to take her hand, his moves slow and deliberate, as if she was a fawn he was careful not to startle.

If the things were different, she would have probably found it hilarious.

Only she wasn't a fawn, Millara aknowledged with renewed misery. It was her he ought to be afraid of, wasn't it?

His fingers encircled her wrist. They were warm and she didn't flinch this time.

"I apologise once again. Shall we start this conversation all over?" - the man gave her a most winning smile. He seemed to have unlimited repertoir of these indeed - "Ye 'ave me word, I won't do anythin' against ye."

Millara replied with a faint smile of her own.

"I suppose it would be best if we leave these...unpleasantries behind." - she bit her lip - "By the way, sorry I've got you in troubles with your sister."

"I've got meself a place of 'onour in her red book long time before, just as ye said, so there."

"Is she usually staying mad for long?"

"This one? Heh, she holds on t' her grudges like a bleedin' dragon. It doesn't matter."- he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, all traces of concern about the family issues he has shown but a moments ago gone - "What I wanted t' say is, come share bread and salt with me. I swear on yer safety within them walls. I might be naught a shiny knight, but I am a man of word. Ye'll see soon enough."

Of course he would promise her that, she thought wryly, a common guest right that Millara saw used and abused so many times before. It was worth only as much as that he won't try to harm her for as long as she stayed under his roof. Once she stepped outside, she was a free game. And she really had no choice here. There was no way that he - and whoever was behid him - didn't know how badly she needed any shred of information he was able to provide, and if she was to achieve anything, she had to agree to his terms.

These people who sought them out, Yoshimo told her, they had ways of getting what they wanted, and only left them alone for now. It absolutely didn't mean they were safe.

"Anyway, missy, come in or go back if ye wish, I's in no rush. Thought ye're th' one."

She nodded and watched Bayle letting go of her hand and turning toward the house's entrance, barely audible curse escaping his lips as he wrestled with a padlock.

The door creaked, opening.

Millara squinted in the light that flooded the porch and followed the man into the building. Her first impression of the inside was surprisingly pleasant - it was bright, with terracotta floor and brilliantly coloured mosaics so loved by southrons. There were oil lamps and embers glowing steadily in the fireplace. Plain linen curtain half-obscured a nook that seemed to be leading to other parts of the house; she peered into the gap and saw narrow stairs and a closed trapdoor in the ceiling.

It was the precisely same nice look of the room that made Millara uneasy.

For once, she was sure that when Gaelan Bayle claimed this was his home, he lied through his teeth.

The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and resinous wood piled by the stove, but the barely-there scent underlying it was the musty dampness of a place not really lived in, and it was clean, too clean. On the windowsill, she spotted a basket full of oranges, grapes, dewy figs and pomegranates, a still-life arranged so perfectly that she supressed the urge to touch them, to check whatever they were real. The paintings on the wall were bland, random pastoral scenes that littered just about every second marketstall in the city - they gave no insight in the house owner's taste - and there was no small personal items, no boots lying by the door for someone to trip over them and complain, no well loved books left waiting to be picked up again, the tomes on the shelf as spotless as the rest of the room and placed in descending order. The house felt cold somehow - in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Bayle took a role of a gracious host - he received her cloak and shown her to the table, and offered her a small crusty loaf to share with him, a gesture of goodwill.

Millara sat across from the man, listening to the clinking of pottery while - despite her protests - he set out a small supper.

"No man should ever be doin' business with their stomach rumblin'. Or a woman, for that matter." - he said with a wink - "And 'sides... No offence meant, lady, but ye's kinda on th' skinny side. 'Twill sure do ye good."

A small supper, indeed.

She let out a resigned sigh, watching the man put down a pitcher of wine and two mismatched cups, followed by a bowl of green and black olives, some cured meat, goat's cheese with honey and dried fruits, dark bread wrapped in what looked like a half-charred leaf, and a jar of smoked sardines - the latter made his lip curl briefly in what she decided was an apparent disgust.

"Why keep these if you don't even like them?"

The man gave her a startled, innocent look of polite enquiry.

"Huh? I sure does like 'em a lot. Help yerself, miss."

Why, mister Bayle, you're one damn bloody liar, Millara felt compelled to say.

She shrugged and said nothing, picking an olive instead.

 

* * *

 

 

"Twenty thousand pieces is their price. For both yer lass and that bastard of a mage who held ye prisoner. As in, ye pay, they do th' deed so yer lot don't have to bother with dungeon crawlin' an' such. Deliver 'em both right t' yer doorstep."

The girl's lips parted, shaping a rosy "o".

Gaelan scowled inwardly; to be honest, he never liked this part. Especially when dealing with women.

Right as rain, no sane person keenly took to listening to hysterics. He'd seen his fair share of hand-wringing, hair-tearing, more or less pretended faintings, snotting and sobbing - an enforcers domain, it was rare that he carried the responsibility of driving such bargains. For most of the times he was present only as an armed back-up, had the whole thing turned awry. But then, sad as it was, nine out of a ten enforcers had a goblin's wit and all the subtlety of an oliphant left prancing in a glass-blower's shop.

And this business wasn't about coaxing a few coins from some random cull - Bloodscalp made his expectations perfectly clear as he filled him in with all the info, gathered by the Guild so far.

Gaelan liked big games and high stakes, and was more than eager to prove himself. Even more so that somehow, after last conversation, it was fair to suspect that usually pleasant Renal was going to have his head for a paperweight if he screwed up.

He had to thread very carefully.

He cleared his throat, turning to the girl across the table as she continued to absentmindedly pick at a bit of bread, not really eating. It crumbled between her fingertips.

He waited patiently for her to comment on the offer.

She didn't.

"Ahh, by Mask, I see that look on yer face. Sure it might appear a lot, but it's a good price if you think some 'bout it." - he added - "Helpin' ye means crossing th' Cowlies. Ye seen that bunch up close, aye? Believe me, messin' with them bloody wizards ain't no thing to be done lightly. It takes certain preparations. These things costs, and... Ye see, 'tis not only th' money I speak of."

The girl nodded.

Now that he could take a better look at her - he'd only seen the girl from a distance over the past few days - Gaelan decided that washed and sober, Millara of Candlekeep was actually kind of pretty.

If in a kind of a troubling way.

Her eyes were admittedly beautiful - wide, and a curious amber colour of autumn leaves - but there were dark circles under those eyes, and a fevered glint to her irises. Silvery streaks he noticed in her pale hair earlier on were just grey, like an old woman's. She was petite, a tad too skinny for his liking, with small hips and thin waist - above all else, the girl looked tired, her cheeks pinched and a somber, determined expression she wore oddly out of place on a person this young.

It left him oddly disappointed and straining to see anything uncanny about her - daughter of the god of murder looked just as any other anxious, uncertain girl would.

"Would that be too much to ask you, what is your business in helping me to find Imoen?" - she asked after a long pause - "Or Irenicus, for that matter?"

Gaelan shrugged.

"Mine? None at all. I'm just a messenger, miss."

"No, no, you know I don't mean you, mister Bayle. At least, not only."

Thoughtfull, the half-elf raised her hand, treating him to the sight of her fingernails - they were bitten to bloody stumps, and then, there were deep, deep scars on her wrists visible where the sleeve rolled up.

"Who's 'they'?"

"Well, is no secret that since I's a messenger, I've got t' work for someone." - he offered - "For ye, enough to know it's an... organisation. Th' only one with enough power to take this kind of challenge, too."

"Sounds rather influential."

"Take me word on that, it is. Very much so."

"So I thought." - Millara straightened and looked right in his face - "And what does the Shadow Thieves' want from me in return? Apart from gold, of course?"

She smiled.

A wary, weary smile that didn't reach her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So there. I'm trying my best, but I don't really have anyone to proof-read for me. Please don't bite me if you see mistakes ;))


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